In My Sights
by Tahllydarling
Summary: Coulson's voice interrupted the moment, coming strong over the link, "Barton if you have her take the shot, I repeat, take the shot." My take on how Clint and Natasha met and became partners.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N: **_Although this story is almost a prequel to Bruises, it could also be a stand alone piece. I'm aiming to update regularly but my life can be a little bit crazy so I make no promises! _

_As always I'd love to know what you think of this. _

* * *

**In My Sights**

"You're sure that you're up to this," Coulson asked, standing in the doorway, "it hasn't been long since the incident in Sarajevo."

From his position on the edge of the balcony, Clint Barton considered his handler's concerns and dismissed them. 'The incident in Sarajevo', as Coulson so blandly referred to it, had left him with a three-inch knife wound to this right thigh, a wound that when he was being completely honest with himself he had to admit wasn't yet entirely healed. "You don't think that I'm up to it?" he asked, raising an amused eyebrow in the other man's direction.

"I don't doubt that you can do it," he replied, "just that the timing might not be right for you to take on an assignment like this."

Barton allowed himself to consider the options. Coulson's confidence in him was much appreciated but that came from many assignments completed side by side, they had long ago learned one another's capabilities. It was true that the timing wasn't right, not if he wanted to be at his best, and he would need to be at his best to complete this particular mission, but if he didn't act now it could be months before the target surfaced again. It would certainly be a string to his bow, so to speak, to bring down someone who had escaped countless other agents. "How many has she eluded now?" he asked.

"Including Ward, fifteen." There was nothing in the older agent's voice that Barton could get a read on, no hint of emotion which could be manipulated or used to guide him, sometimes Barton wondered whether Coulson actually had emotions, but then of course if that were the case he wouldn't have recruited his current charge and saved him from a life of crime. Everything he was, everything he had, he owed to Phil Coulson. That was why he listened to him and followed his advice when he was given assignments. "This isn't the kind of woman you go up against with an injury."

Clint nodded, more to show that he'd heard the warning than to agree with what Phil was saying. "How solid is the intel?" he asked, watching the figures that moved along the streets far below them. He had always been at his most comfortable when he was perched above his surroundings, able to see what was happening without being seen by those he tracked, even as a child. Already he knew that he couldn't let an opportunity like this pass him by, all he had to do was convince his handler to feel the same. He turned his head to look at the handler who had become the only person in the world he trusted and grinned. "We could go and check out the tip right, just to make sure that it's legit?"

Coulson sighed, knowing that he was beaten and that they were heading into yet another mission that he would probably end up having to explain to his superiors. None of their missions passed without some sort of incident, minor though they usually were, it was the price of handling an agent who still looked on the world with a certain youthful exuberance. "Fine, we'll go and check it out," he exclaimed, "now will you please get down from that ledge, just looking at you makes me feel dizzy!"

Barton's grin turned predatory but he nodded and swung down from the balcony ledge, landing with both feet by the doors. It was difficult sometimes not to be amused by how uneasy Coulson was with his penchant for high places but he had learned not to tease him too strongly, that stunt on the rooftop in Prague had landed him in an awful lot of hot water when his handler had almost slipped from the roof. Jumping out unexpectedly from behind gargoyles was now categorically off the list of approved actions. Since then, Clint had toned down his teasing of the agent in front of him and admitted to himself that if one ignored the obvious differences in age, body language and preferred attire, they were actually a pretty good team.

"I'm doing this for you man," he announced as he stalked into the hotel room, taking his bow from his back and throwing it down on the bed. "Imagine the kudos you'll get when you're the senior agent who took her down!"

Coulson sniffed in response and made some sort of pithy remark about duty and how much trouble Clint could possibly cause before they arrived back at base but Barton was no longer listening, he was thinking about the mission ahead. He had heard stories about this particular target and he was keen to get a look at her for himself, it wasn't often that a woman made such waves in his particular line of work but this woman, well, a chance tangling with her might just be worth getting stabbed for.

"This isn't going to be easy Barton!" Coulson exclaimed as his agent flopped down onto the mattress, resting his hands behind his head. It astounded him just how relaxed Clint Barton would be about what could potentially be a life threatening assignment. His self confidence bordered on arrogance sometimes and yet he also knew deep down that there was a side of him that was always striving to prove himself, a side that desperately wanted to be accepted. It was that side of Barton's character that made him bearable.

"Nope," he agreed, grinning, "but it'll be a challenge and those are always fun."


	2. Chapter 2

"What is it they call her again?" he asked, the position of the spotting scope slightly to the left so that he could see rear entrance to the building clearly. Usually he preferred to observe without the benefit of the scope, preferring to rely on his unusually sharp gaze, but there were times when even his hawk like eyes were insufficient and the building he was watching was some distance from his current perch.

They had been in Odessa for three days and all they had seen of the infamous spy that they were hunting was a fleeting glimpse as she disappeared into the crowds at Teatralnaya Square, he was hoping for something more from his current stake out. She was extraordinarily good, he'd give her that, grudgingly, but it was fortunate that he could be extraordinarily patient. He was committed now and he always got his man, or in this case woman.

Coulson's voice sounded tinny over the comms link, his tone that of a man who had all the facts and didn't fully understand why his agent did not. "Black Widow," he replied, "and believe me when I tell you she lives up to the name."

Clint turned that information over in his head. He had known her name but asking had allowed him to ease the boredom that sometime set in during long surveillance jobs. It was true that the Black Widow was a well-known name in his field, her moniker being linked to several high-profile assassinations and more security breaches than he could count. For all she was almost a legend however, there were few who could claim to have actually laid eyes on her and that particular detail had always bothered him, feeling as he did that such a reputation could easily have been garnered by more than one woman if they each assumed the same identity. It would certainly help to explain why no reliable description of the woman existed.

Before they had left Volterra, he had asked Coulson to request all the data that SHIELD had on file about her and, after a thorough study of the information, he had concluded that they were in fact dealing with only one highly skilled, if slightly bipolar, woman. Intelligence suggested that she had been affiliated for many years with a covert division of the Soviet government and that she had been orphaned at a young age. Clint could relate to that element of her background as the loss of his own parents when he was a boy had been a large part of the reason for him making the wrong choices in life. Was her story similar to his, had she been so desperate to fit in somewhere that she had made poor choices or had she walked her own path? Didn't matter either way, an assignment was an assignment. He might have some sympathy for her but he would still do what was necessary to neutralise the threat that she posed.

It was a while later that he saw the red-head moving through the grounds. At first glance there was nothing particularly noteworthy about her, aside from a walk and physique that made him think exactly the kind of thoughts that would distract him from the job at hand. He gave her a cursory glance and was about to dismiss her presence when he noticed the _way_ that she moved, staying close to the tree line, confident but obviously alert to her surroundings. Instincts prickling, he tracked her more carefully.

"Target is within your range," Coulson's voice announced through his earpiece. Adjusting his grip on his bow, Clint squinted into the late afternoon sunlight and tried to get an accurate read on her. He followed her movement through the trees, observing the way her hips rocked with every stride as she broke cover and headed toward the research laboratory that he had been surveilling, every movement filled with a power that spoke of more than an occasional gym workout. This was his target, he knew it in the marrow of his bones. This woman who drew no attention as she moved, who blended in as if she belonged there, was who he was waiting for.

Their intelligence suggested that the Black Widow had been hired to steal proprietary information from the organisation and her presence on sight certainly seemed to back that up. He wasn't sure what it was that she would want at a laboratory like the one she was heading to, a lab that specialised in genetic testing, but it didn't matter. When he apprehended her, he would be able to return the data to its rightful owners. "Got her, should I neutralise her now?" he asked.

Coulson's answer was immediate, "negative, hold your fire Agent. We'll pick her up when she exits the lab."

What followed seemed like an age as he waited for someone to get eyes on her leaving the site. From his perch high in the branches of the trees, he had a clear view of the main and rear entrances but there was a side entrance which was also being watched. She was nothing like he would have expected but perhaps he had been expecting a cliché. When he'd heard rumours of a Soviet super spy, he had always imagined a statuesque, blue-eyed ice queen; though he hadn't gotten a close enough look to see her eye colour, he had easily been able to see that she was neither tall nor blonde.

As security alarms from within the building began to wail and security guards ran toward the lab, she appeared to his left, moving fast between the trees as she fled the compound. He had to give her credit for clearing the building before the alarm was sounded, for making it as far as the trees before he saw her coming. Security flooded out of the building in her wake, the main gates slamming shut with a resounding crash as guards locked the site down. Clint tracked her once again, marvelling at the sure-footed way she wound her way between the tree trunks. She moved like a dancer, fluid muscle memory carrying her over the ground with a speed and agility that would have been almost impossible to match.

"Barton, report" the voice in his ear startled him into action and he aimed his bow ahead of her current position, taking into account the time that it would take for his arrow to reach her and performing the necessary calculations in his head to adjust for wind speed and time that would elapse between release and impact. "She's out and headed in your direction."

"Got her in my sights," he replied calmly, counting the beats of his heart, sure and steady, while he waited for the order to come over the comms.

Unexpectedly the Widow slowed, appearing to favour one ankle. She stopped in a clearing among the trees, glancing around herself as if she weren't sure which way to go, and for the first time Barton wondered whether this had been her planned escape route or whether she was improvising out of necessity. She turned, scanning the trees as if she expected to find someone watching her and for the first time he saw her face.

She was petite, her red hair falling in waves that blazed like fire around her shoulders and hung to her lower back. Her skin was porcelain pale and contrasted sharply with the black of her clothing. Stunning. As though his thoughts called to her, she turned her face toward him, the wind catching her hair as she stared over her shoulder toward his location although there was no way that she should be able to see him from where she stood. Her eyes were as green as emeralds, as deep as oceans, bright and shining with tears or perhaps just emotion as she stood perfectly still, waiting although she couldn't possibly know what she waited for. They remained locked like that, staring directly at each other across a great distance as if connected by some force that he could not see. He wondered if her instincts were ringing the way his were.

Coulson's voice interrupted the moment, coming strong over the link, "Barton if you have her take the shot, I repeat, take the shot."

Clint hesitated, caught in the spell of her eyes and unable to look away. She could see him he realised, knew that he was there and was waiting to see what course of action he chose. Though she must have known that she was in danger, that every second she remained in his sight was another moment that he could end her life, she waited. There was no mistaking the emotion on her face, no illusion powerful enough to hide the tears on her cheeks as she stared right at him, right through him. Clint was not a man to be moved by sentiment; he had the mentality of a soldier. Tears did not affect him in the way that they might affect others, but he found himself curiously frozen, torn between the impulse to let her go and the need to know what had caused her such distress.

Stretching out, the moment became impossibly thin and fluid as they watched one another across a great distance and then he heard the baying of dogs as the security team began to close in on her. He glanced to the left, searching for the sound. The scent dogs and their handlers had reached the tree line, close enough to pick up on her trail and perhaps his too. It was no longer safe for him to stay in position; it definitely wasn't safe for her to stay where she was on the ground.

Within seconds they could be discovered; he had to make his choice and make it now. Turning back, he looked for her again but she was no longer there. The clearing was empty and the Black Widow was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

"Now, where did you go?" he wondered aloud as he moved silently through the branches. Having spent the last half hour searching for any sign of the Widow's presence, he was beginning to wonder if the woman had the ability to disappear into thin air.

It had taken a few minutes after he fled the search dogs for Coulson to stop ranting into his earpiece but for several minutes now his handler had been quiet. It wasn't the end of the discussion, not by a long shot. Clint suspected that he was brooding, although without actually setting eyes on him there was no way for him to confirm that suspicion. No matter how this turned out, he was in for a lecture when he got back, and wasn't that something to look forward to?

She hadn't left him much to go on that was for sure; her passing had barely disturbed the undergrowth and it was only because of his ability as a tracker that he could follow her trail at all. Time could have given her the chance to escape but he knew that there was an electric fence that bordered the perimeter of the site and no matter how athletic she seemed it was doubtful that she had climbed it. Unless she had somehow doubled back without him noticing, she couldn't have gone far. It was only a matter of time until he found her.

The foliage was dense, hiding the ground from his sight and preventing him from discerning any footprints that she might have left behind as she fled through the trees. Every now and then he would stop and listen, hoping to catch the sound of twigs snapping or leaves rustling as she made her escape but she was as stealthy as her reputation claimed and left nothing obvious in her wake. He was about to admit to himself that he might have been mistaken, that perhaps he had taken a wrong turn somewhere, when he saw a flash of metal among a particularly dense patch of ferns.

Swinging easily down from his position, he moved quietly to investigate the unusual object, curiosity piqued when he realised that the metallic object was actually a door. The hatch reminded him of the tornado shelter out back of his grandmother's house in Iowa, a heavy slab of steel with hinges that led to an underground room where they had sheltered through more than a few storms. Like that door, this one had a pull handle and probably opened into an underground structure but what kind of structure it concealed remained a mystery. As far as he was aware the Ukraine didn't often suffer from tornados, but he was far from expert on the subject, which left the possibility that it might be some sort of sewer access or a nuclear bunker, either way he was going in.

At the foot of the ladder, he paused, scanning the darkness for signs of life and finding nothing. Even with his unusually sharp eyesight, he had to fight the urge to shine a torch into his surroundings. Instead of relying on sight, he reached out with his other senses, allowing his body to tell him about his surroundings when his eyes couldn't be trusted to give accurate information.

The ground beneath his feet was slightly uneven, soft but firm, and if the earthy smell was any indication probably compressed dirt on top of stone. As his eyes adjusted, he realised that there was more light down there than he would have expected, soft light that allowed him to see the outline of the tunnel in which he now stood. With his bow strung over his back, he turned, tracking the movement of the air and finding an opening close to his location. Crouching down he skimmed the floor lightly with his fingers, hoping that she might have left behind boot sprints that would tell him which direction she had taken off in. There was something there, faint and indistinct but definitely present, and he felt his blood slumbering, the thrill of the hunt taking hold and firing in his veins as he began to move.

He didn't know how he knew that she was behind him but he knew almost as soon as she appeared at his back. There weren't many people who could creep up on him unnoticed and that she had done so made him wonder if the hand of fate was not at work in their encounter, was the Black Widow meant to be his executioner, was he meant to be hers? The question was an intriguing one and he knew that there was only one way to find the answer to.

Lights flared above his head as he spun to face her, drawing the knife at his waist as he turned. The old lighting system hung from the ceiling of the tunnels and bathed everything in dim yellow light, affording him a look at the woman who stood with her hand on the breaker switch. As if unperturbed by his proximity she lowered her hand so that she could hook her thumbs into the belt that she wore around her slender waist. Neither of them moved, the world seeming to slow down around them and afford them a chance to assess one another.

"You're a difficult woman to find," he told her eventually, unable to stand the silence. It was more than that though, he wanted to hear her voice, to know what so feared a woman sounded like. If she had wanted to kill him, she could have done it before now.

"Apparently not difficult enough," she replied, launching herself across the space that separated them. She was fast, that was his first thought as he dodged backward to avoid her attack, fast and well trained, blending martial arts and weapons training with a gymnasts co-ordination. He could hardly be considered a slouch in close combat, but she was something else, something that he hadn't been trained for, or perhaps she was everything that he had been trained for, an opponent who would really put him through his paces.

She came at him hard, fists and feet flying, every move designed to put him on the defensive and limit his opportunity to land a blow of his own. She was his equal, that much was apparent in the way she met him, matching him strike for block, blow for blow, like they had been made to do this dance. Every impact was like a wake up call, his blood singing in his veins as they cut loose and threw everything that they had into the fight. It had been a long time since he'd found himself up against an opponent who truly provided him with the element of challenge that made him reach down inside himself and he found himself wanting her to show him what she was made of more than he wanted the respect he would get for taking her down.

He was stronger than her but she was lightning fast and almost impossibly flexible, spinning and twisting out of his grip before landing well aimed blows of her own. Though he had orders to kill her and she was more than capable of drawing one of her guns and ending things between them then and there, neither of them made any move to do so as if some understanding had been reached between them without the need for words.

Feinting to the left, he spun her round and twisted her arm up the centre of her back, pushing her into the wall and holding her there. He could feel the tension singing through her, the indecision as she tried to weigh up his intentions. Breathing heavily, he held her in place and reminded himself that in order for him to complete his mission he had to eliminate her, that was when he caught a smell that he recognised all too well on the air, she was bleeding. "You're injured," he remarked, wondering how she had been able to fight the way she had whilst carrying an injury.

"You were sent to kill me," she told him, shrugging off his concern, "do it."

Caught off guard by the words, he stripped her of the guns that were strapped to her thighs and the knife sheathed at her waist, tossing them to the ground out of reach. "If I wanted you dead I would have shot you in the woods."

"Why didn't you?" she asked, "you defy your orders now but we both know that there is nowhere for me to go, where there is one of you there will be another, they'll keep sending people until the job is done."

Her voice was clean, only the slightest hint of an accent evident as she spoke, which both surprised him and seemed entirely in keeping with her chameleon like nature. What concerned him was the seemingly calm manner in which she appeared to accept her imminent demise, so casual as if merely stating a known fact or discussing the weather. "They? You talk like it's what you want," he exclaimed.

She threw herself backward in his arms, narrowly avoiding smashing her head into his nose. Quick reflexes aside, there was nothing that he could do to stop what happened next. Capitalising on his shift in balance the Widow lurched forward, running up the wall and flipping over his head, somehow managing to loop her arm tightly around his throat and pull him backward. Her grip was tight but not suffocatingly so. "I don't want to die," she told him, voice close to his ear, "but it's preferable to living like a hunted animal. You, your employers, the people who made me what I am, all of you seek to control an asset but I am not a pawn to be played in someone else's game. Nyet, no longer."

Firing an elbow back into her ribs, he managed to break free from her hold. Warily, the circled one another, both of them looking for an opening to take the other down. Clint turned the facts that she had revealed over in his head, trying to reconcile what he knew about her with what she had just revealed. He might not have always been the most careful agent on SHIELD's books but he considered himself an excellent judge of character and he saw much more to the woman in front of him than her fearsome reputation. It didn't help that his blood was still thundering in his veins, a summoning toward the fire headed temptress in front of him.

He saw her clearly in that moment, saw the bright eyes and the bloodstains, the exhaustion and the anger that kept her on her feet. She was only human wasn't she, just like him, vulnerable to the same pains, the same regrets that came from living a life in the service of others. He saw the tears and cracks and bloodstains that were part of being human in her when he looked closely and he saw youth. The Black Widow, a woman that so many feared, that so many hunted, was far younger than her reputation would have suggested. He felt strangely obligated to try and help her.

"It's true that I was sent to kill you," he told her, raising his hands to show that he meant her no harm, "but if you let me I think I can help you."

She scoffed at the idea, throwing up a hand as if to ward off his words. When she moved, he noticed that the leg she had favoured when he had watched her in the forest was bothering her, that there was blood seeping down the edge of her boot. "Why would I trust you?" she asked angrily, "if you want to help me then tell them all that you killed me, tell them that the body was dragged away by the river, that I was never here at all."

He moved toward her, ignoring her demands that he stay back, bracing himself for the blow that he knew would come. She was a fighter, she wouldn't go quietly. She leapt into the air, hauling herself up on a bar in the ceiling and using the momentum to swing at him, landing on his shoulders and using her body weight to throw him to the floor where she pinned him beneath her weight. It was a hell of a move and he had to be honest and admit that it had all happened so quickly that he had no idea what she had done.

With his own knife pressed to his throat, he wondered when the apparent truce between them had ended. He could see the indecision in her eyes though, the curiosity that seemed to echo his own, as if she knew that he wasn't sure what to think of her and didn't know quite to make of him either. Thinking fast, he laid an offer on the table. "You're on their radar, no way to change that now," he said softly, wondering whether words would still her hand or hasten his death. "They think that you're a killer, that you feel nothing, they think that you're too big a risk to leave alive."

"I am," she replied hollowly, "exactly what they made me and they will all have to suffer the consequences."

"Then be something else," he suggested, "choose your own destiny. Let me talk to my people and bring you in, I think they'll be keen to make a deal with you. You could have a new life, one that will help you to make up for what has gone before …"

"And you will just let me walk away" she asked incredulously, " on nothing more than my word?"

Barton nodded, still not attempting to move. Her face remained impassive, nothing given away by her expression. Finally, after what seemed like an age, she moved off him, rising to her feet in one nimble movement. She reached down to help him up, pulling him to his feet, her expression speculative. "It seems that I can no more kill you Hawk than you could kill this spider when you had your shot in the woods."

Clint tried not to show his surprise that she knew who he was, reasoning that there couldn't be many assassins in operation who favoured a bow. It made sense that a woman such as her would keep tabs on those who might one day be sent after her. "Give me twenty-four hours," he told her, "and if you want to make a deal, start anew, meet me in Teatralnaya Square at midday tomorrow."

As she backed away, collecting her weapons from the floor, she didn't take her gaze away from him. He could see the suspicion there, but beneath it he could see that she was considering his offer, even in the dim light of the tunnel, he could see that she was trying to come to some sort of decision about him. "I'll think on your offer," she told him with a slight nod of her head, "midday tomorrow."

He watched her back away, maintaining eye contact while he tried to catch his breath, pretty sure that it was more than just the exertion that had winded him. "Hey Widow, get that leg looked at," he suggested.

She offered him the faintest of smiles, a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. "Natalia," she called as she turned and started to jog away along the tunnel, leaving him leaning against the wall, "my name is Natalia."


	4. Chapter 4

"You did what?" Coulson exploded, pacing around the apartment in which they had set up their base of operations. To say that his handler was unimpressed would be an understatement, much as it would be an understatement for Clint to suggest that he wasn't aching from his tangle with the Black Widow.

From the chair in the corner of the room he adjusted the ice pack that he was holding to his shoulder and sighed, "I let her go."

"Let her go?" Coulson echoed. "You had one of the most dangerous women in the world, a woman that we were sent here to kill, within your grasp and you just let her walk out of there?"

Barton had thought a lot about his actions that afternoon but he still believed that he had done the right thing in making her the offer. While it was true that the Widow, Natalia he reminded himself, was a master of manipulation, he believed that his instincts were correct in her case. Deep down he believed that she truly believed that she was being hunted, he had seen the expression in her eyes, the look of an animal caught in a snare that she couldn't free herself from. He believed that she could be a valuable asset to SHIELD and that the protection and support that she might find there could help her to make amends for her past.

"You didn't see the look on her face Phil," he explained, "she wants to change. All we have to do is give her the chance and she'll make the right choice."

Coulson snorted and turned to face him, pointing a finger in the direction of the thick manilla file that sat on the desk near Clint's elbow. "Do you know what that woman is capable of?" he asked. "Don't be fooled by a pretty face and fluttered eyelashes Barton, she's done things that most people couldn't even consider. There are dozens of instances listed in that file, murder, espionage, you name it she's done it …"

Rising from the chair, Clint threw the ice pack to the table and faced his handler. He knew what was in the file, he had requested it. The contents of that file were one of the reasons that he had agreed to take the job and hunt the Widow down, but having met her he knew that there was more to her than darkness and death. "I know what's in the file," he replied, "but my gut is telling me something different."

He saw the moment that Coulson folded, he knew that his handler would make contact with Director Fury to ask his opinion on the matter. If Fury decided that he wouldn't take Natalia in then Clint already knew that he would stand down from the assignment. If SHIELD maintained the kill order on her head, well, he might not be able to prevent it but he certainly wouldn't be the one to do it. "You do realise that you're proposing we bring a woman who deals in death into our house?" Phil said quietly, all anger and judgement gone from his voice.

"And what are we Coulson if not dealers in death?" he asked wearily. "If we have the chance to save her, to turn her and bring her in from the cold, shouldn't we at least try?"

Within an hour of their conversation, Clint had suffered the indignity of another verbal assault, which he sat through because it was delivered by the director of SHIELD himself, and had also been commended for his fast thinking in offering the woman in question a potential career with the organisation he called home. The finer details were still to be worked out but the bottom line was that he and Coulson had a green light to negotiate with Natalia if and when she showed up the following day.

"I need to make clear to both of you," Fury announced across the video stream, his face showing the gravitas with which he faced his role as director of one of the world's largest security agencies, "that even if we bring her in, she'll have to prove herself."

"Sir …" Coulson interrupted. Fury was not in the mood to be talked over though and continued full steam ahead as if his favourite senior agent hadn't spoken at all.

"We know that her physical skills aren't in question, there's no doubt that she's a highly efficient weapon, but her loyalty will have to be proved before we can let her loose in the field without a partner."

Clint remained silent, thinking about the woman who had probably never worked alongside another. She was deadly and she was highly independent, how would she take the news that she was going to be saddled with a partner?

Fury sighed, the eye patch that covered his ruined eye shifting as his facial muscles moved. "Just bring her in and we'll go from there."

"We'll need to establish trust with her," Barton told both of his superiors, "I get the impression that she's been wronged by her handlers and she's not going to volunteer for another cage. She'll need careful handling."

"Which is where you two come in," Fury announced. "It seems that no matter where I send you there's a complication to clean up, so your new assignment is to make sure that this woman whom you insist could be a part of this organisation Agent, actually makes it into our house."

"And the kill order Sir?" Coulson asked, voice showing little emotion.

"I've ordered a temporary reprieve," the director replied, "you have seventy-two hours to make some headway with her and then it's back on the table. I suggest that if you want to save this woman, you make them count."


	5. Chapter 5

Tourists. Barton hated tourists. He hated the way that they meandered about and their loud, overly excited chatter when they recognised a landmark from the image in their Lonely Planet travel guides, but most of all he hated their obsession with photography. Leaning against the pillars of the theatre building, he tried his best to keep to the shadows, not wanting his face to appear in the holiday snaps of all the people who seemed to want to take pictures of everything in the square. Social media had been given him an advantage on more than one occasion when he was trying to track a suspect, he did not want his own movements documented in so public a way, facial recognition software was becoming scarily accurate.

Aside from the tourists and his subsequent need to hide from their cameras, it was a beautiful day, the kind of day which had made Odessa so popular with Russian aristocrats prior to the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Even in the shade he could feel the warmth of the air and the sun was bright enough that he required sunglasses to ensure that he didn't miss Natalia's approach. She would be there, he was sure of it, though it appeared that he was the only one to think so.

"Still no sign of her," Coulson remarked, his tone irritatingly neutral. Though it wasn't said explicitly, Clint knew what was being implied, his handler believed that her talk of being persecuted and hunted was just that, talk. Much as he hated to admit it, it had crossed his mind that perhaps the speech had been designed just to make sure that he didn't shoot her in those tunnels. A woman like the Black Widow did not rise to the heights of her profession without being able to manipulate others.

"If I were her I'd be scoping out the meeting area before I walked out into the open. Give her time," he replied. He scanned the crowds in the square, searching for a flash of fiery hair among the blondes and brunettes that filled his line of vision.

Moments ticked by, each seeming longer than the last as he waited in hope that she would come striding out into the open. Turning toward the tower where Coulson watched over the square, he spoke into his comms link. "Maybe something spooked her," he suggested.

Coulson's sigh was one that was becoming increasingly familiar, "or maybe she had no intention of showing at all."

A flash of movement caught Clint's attention, drawing his eye to a cluster of tourists at the edge of the square. Instincts sharpening, he studied the features of the women in the group and found his attention lingering on one in particular, a small, athletic looking brunette who stood slightly away from the others, seemingly taking pictures with a camera. Something was off about her. He watched carefully, tracking her movement as she appeared to survey the highest points around the square through the viewfinder of her camera, paying particular attention to the tower where Coulson and a back up team were located.

Concerned, he started moving at the same time she did, stepping toward her as she broke away from the pack with whom she had concealed herself. He was not about to let anything happen to Phil or the others just so that he had a chance to work alongside a woman like her. Her walk was one that he would have recognised anywhere, confident, self assured and almost entirely unaffected by the injury she had sustained the previous day. Rather than moving away from him, she came directly toward him, green eyes flashing a warning as she drew closer that he didn't know her well enough to understand.

"Don't!" she whispered urgently as soon as she was close enough to know that he would hear her, "it isn't safe, they're watching."

Paranoia, of course, how else could a woman who believed herself to be being hunted interpret a group of people with surveillance cameras in the tower. He pulled a map from his pocket, pretended to ask for directions so that he had an excuse to stop her for a second. "They're with me," he tried to reassure her.

"Not in the tower," she replied, "third window over in the building to the left of it. They are not SHIELD employees Hawk and it would be unwise for us to talk here."

As she moved away, she brushed against him, the barest touch of her body against his own, so casual that it could have been accidental. Her fingers brushed against his his hand on top of the map as if pointing to a location, a seemingly irrelevant touch until he noticed where she was pointing. The brush of her skin against his own was devastatingly casual and enough to make his senses ring. She turned her eyes up toward his own, willing him to understand the message that she was giving him. Barton knew the language, it was one that he spoke well, a language of subterfuge and intrigue.

He didn't turn to watch her leave, didn't further acknowledge her in any way, instead continuing on his path as if it had been his chosen route all along. Coulson's requests for information remained unanswered, Clint's peripheral vision tracking the windows that Natalia had identified and finding movement there. He didn't know who was watching but he was not about to show them the next step in this journey.

He was back at the apartment space they had been working from before he allowed himself to try and decode the message that she had given him. The clue on the map was the easiest, the slightest hint of ink on her fingertip had left a mark over the landmark that she chosen, as she had no doubt intended it to. She wanted to meet him at the docks, but where at the docks? There were dozens of possible meeting locations in that area of the city.

Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled for the second piece of the puzzle, a small card like those used to advertise bars and clubs. He hadn't reacted when he felt her slip it into his pocket while she looked at that map and pointed him in the right direction. Truthfully, her touch had been quick and almost imperceptible, like a woman who had been trained in the school of the seven bells to pick pockets and extract information from an unknowing mark. This time she had been giving rather than stealing. Opening out the folded cardboard, he found the name of a bar that he had heard of, a busy establishment near the docks that catered predominantly for those who disembarked the cruise ships and sought entertainment in the city, and a time 10pm.

The laugh that escaped him as he further opened the card was genuine and uninhibited. Damn the girl was good at what she did. With a smile, he picked up the small electronic chip that was nestled within the paper, recognising it immediately for what it was.

"I hope you have something damn funny to be laughing about," Coulson exclaimed as the rest of the team entered the apartment, " because from where I was sitting that looked like a complete disaster."

Clint set down the things that she given him on the table beside Coulson's laptop and gestured that the older man should take a look at them. "She was spooked by the security team in the next building," he explained, "highly organised, well equipped, definitely not us, that's why she took off."

Phil's expression was a mixture of curiosity and disbelief, "you're saying that she made a surveillance unit from that distance."

"She's wary," Clint admitted, "but she's good at what she does. Instinct has kept her alive this long. She did leave us a trail though, a time and a place to meet with her."

There was speculation now, and the first hint of excitement on Coulson's face, "she gave this to you in that five second interaction in the square? Damn, she is good."

"And we know just how and where to find her," he replied, "all I need is a cell phone."

When the necessary equipment was provided, he carefully fitted the GPS chip that Natalia had given him, relieved to see that when he activated it a small red dot appeared on the map that was displayed on his screen. It was a bold move to tag herself and encourage him to follow her trail, a move that could end in her leading him into an ambush, or one that showed that she was willing to trust him. Certainly, it was one which he probably wouldn't have considered. This way if she wasn't where she had suggested she would be at the appointed time, he had a way to track her down.


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N:** _Thanks to anyone who has read and/or reviewed this so far. I'm aware that this will differ from the comic book canon of how the characters met and to be honest I'm just figuring this out as I go along based on who I think the characters are. Many thanks to those who pointed out my misspelling of Coulson's name - gratefully received those of you who found a nice way to point out my mistake - I've amended it. Hope you all like where this is going ..._

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The bar was crowded when he arrived shortly before ten, packed with tourists and locals all of whom seemed to have had several drinks more than they should have. Once upon a time Clint could imagine the bar having belonged to the sailors and dock workers and possessing a certain rustic charm that a part of him mourned the loss of. He was not a man who relished the club scene, finding the flashing lights and pulsing music to be nothing more than an irritation - give him a back alley spit and sawdust bar any time over the pretentious yuppy filled bars that seemed to be gradually taking over the world. Give him a back alley fire escape and his bow and he would be even happier.

He knew that she was there, was almost sure that he would have known it without having looked at the tracker before he stepped inside. Natalia was at the back of the bar, her table shrouded in shadow and lit only sparingly by the dim light overhead. Two squat glasses, neither of them filled, and a heavy glass bottle of vodka stood on the table in front of her. He couldn't see her face but it didn't matter; he knew that it was her the moment he saw her.

"I wasn't sure that you'd come," she exclaimed simply, raising an eyebrow in his direction as he came to stand by the table, moving through the crowd of bodies and clouds of cigarette smoke that coiled on the air just inside the doorway.

Clint shrugged, repressing the urge to ask her about the men who had watched her earlier, curious to know who might have the resources or a strong enough suicidal impulse to risk following her. "You're early," he replied instead. With a tilt of her head, she took in the surrounding clientele with a practised eye and eased back into her seat. He wasn't fooled by her apparent disregard of her surroundings though; he was willing to bet that she could be out of her seat and fighting in a heartbeat if occasion called for it. Hypervigilance, another trait that they appeared to share.

"Occupational hazard," she replied levelly, gesturing to the seat opposite her own and inviting him to sit. "I like to scope out a meeting place ahead of the appointed time, people like you and I can't be too careful."

"Agreed." He sat, unfastening his jacket so that the handguns strapped beneath his arms were more easily accessible, no sense in taking unnecessary risks. Guns might not have been his first choice of weapon but he was more than capable of using them to get the job done if need be. He pointed toward the glasses and bottle on the table. "Are we celebrating?"

Natalia smiled. It wasn't a genuine smile but a practised smile, a cold smile. Idly he wondered what a real smile would look like on her face, the kind that reached her eyes and lit her features from within, would her cold beauty offer up that kind of smile? "That rather depends on what terms your people are prepared to offer me doesn't it Hawk?"

"Clint," he replied automatically, tired of hiding, wanting to hear the sound of his given name on her tongue, "or Barton, whichever you find more acceptable." Her surprise registered only in her eyes, a glint of amusement beneath the reserved expression she wore. He felt compelled to explain in a way that was entirely out of character. "If we're going to have a potentially life changing conversation we should probably be even, you gave me your name, now you have mine. You have questions, ask."

"Do you drink vodka Barton?" she asked, reaching for the bottle. "Being Russian, I find that it's the purest and simplest way to escape that which I'd rather forget."

"Such as?" he asked. She scrutinised his expression, measuring him in some way that he didn't understand before she continued.

"There are many things that I have done that I'm not proud of," she explained, "this is my confession, freely made to a man who I believe might understand the reasons why I hate myself. I have lied, I have stolen and I have killed in the service of others. My skill set is very specific and I have sold it to the highest bidder without care for who I was using it for or on …" she trailed off, taking a healthy swallow of the vodka in her glass without reaction. "There is only so much blood that can be on one person's hands before the stains become permanent."

Barton understood that sentiment, before Coulson had found him he had been in danger of following a similar path. "You've made quite a name for yourself, the Black Widow … did you pick that or did your handlers?"

"It wouldn't have been my choice," she replied, "Black Widow was the name of the project that made me, a quest to make the perfect female agent …" she paused, gaze far back in the past rather than in the bar they sat in. " … I was not the only one, there were many of us in the beginning, but I'm the only one left. I am," she exclaimed drily, " their success story."

She refilled her glass and drank the vodka neat, seemingly unaffected by its strength or the fact that it was at room temperature. "What happened to the others?" he asked, not entirely sure that he wanted to know the answer.

"They didn't live up to expectations," she replied, locking away any flicker of emotion that might have given him a clue as to how she felt about the loss of the women she had lived with. Abruptly, her eyes cleared and she looked him directly in the face. "You offered me a fresh start, a chance to work with SHIELD, I need to know if it's possible."

"It's possible," he replied clamly, "I've been told to invite you in."

This time her smile had a hint of mischief to it. "Will I be expected to wear handcuffs if I respond to this invitation?"

He considered the comment for a second, wondering whether Fury would in fact want Natalia cuffed when they took her to meet him. Coulson no doubt would know the finer points or be responsible for arranging them. "Not that they've told me," he replied honestly, "but you might expect them to be wary of anyone with a reputation like yours."

"I'd expect nothing less," she replied, "and I'll comply, whatever it takes." She threw back her vodka, refilling the glass once again and looking pointedly at his untouched drink. "If I wanted you dead I could think of a hundred more interesting ways than to poison you Clint."

She was right of course. If she'd wanted him dead, he never would have made it out of the tunnels. Raising his glass in her direction he threw back it's contents in a single swallow. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, a reminder that vodka was her drink of choice and not his own, by choice he was a whiskey man, preferably a good Kentucky bourbon. "Now I have a question for you, if I may?" he asked, holding out his glass for a refill.

"Ask away," she told him, refilling both glasses and settling back into the seat. She looked at ease, somehow less wary now that he had confirmed that she would have her chance at becoming part of SHIELD.

He wasn't sure how to ask the question so he did it as directly as possible. "Who are the men that are following you?"

Natalia sighed but there was no irritation behind the sound, if anything she looked tired, worn down by the weight of whatever secrets she was keeping. "I'm not sure exactly who they are," she admitted, "but I suspect that they're working for the Red Room or one of its partner agencies. Understand, in their eyes I'm not a person but an asset, they've been controlling me since I was a child, manipulating my actions and worse my memories. They won't like the fact that I've been asserting my independence."

"So if you join SHIELD …"

"I will be permanently beyond their reach and I'll have the chance to use the skills I've gained to help people or even bring down people like those who ruined my life. Plus, I'm tired of being on SHIELDs threat list, if they want to monitor me so badly I might as well get something out of the deal." She looked at him, holding up her glass so that she could tap the edge of the glass against his own in a toast. "To the future," she said drily, "and whatever it holds."

"Whatever the future holds," he echoed, drinking the toast and allowing her to refill his glass.

Coulson's quiet confirmation that he was shutting down the transmission link was enough to let him know that her acceptance of SHIELDs offer had been logged. Clint wondered how his handler would spend the rest of the evening, would he be on the phone to Fury or would he head out into the city and actually try to have some fun? The last comment wasn't really fair and he knew it, Coulson was a good guy and he was more than capable of cutting loose and having a good time when the circumstances called for it, surely being the agent who persuaded the Black Widow to defect and join their organisation was good enough reason.

Alone and unmonitored, he allowed himself to really consider the woman who sat opposite him at the table. Though the lights weren't especially bright and the atmosphere could easily have been improved, Natalia was something special, the kind of woman who simultaneously drew attention and somehow managed to blend into the background. She didn't look out of place, her outfit of dark denim and a red shirt, emphasised her colouring and the short leather jacket that she wore over it all helped her to blend in with the crowd.

They talked of everything and nothing, Natalia peppering the conversation with questions about what it was like to work for SHIELD and revealing startling, and frankly disturbing, insights into what it had been like to grow up and work for the organisation she called the Red Room. Clint had never heard of them but he filed the name away for further investigation when he got back to the apartment and could talk to Coulson privately. His thoughts turned to the potential knowledge that she might have at her disposal. They swapped opinions on everything from weaponry to movies and while they were doing it they drank the remainder of her bottle of vodka.

It was late and he was feeling the effects of the alcohol by the time they left the bar. He was far from drunk but the vodka had placed a pleasant warmth in his limbs; Natalia in contrast was in good spirits but appeared completely sober. They walked companionably side by side, neither of them feeling a need to fill the comfortable silence that had descended between them. It was nice, the ability to walk beside someone who understood that is silence didn't mean he was aloof. She just seemed to accept that it was a part of who he was, that meaningless prattle was not always a part of his nature. He suspected that she was the same and that thought gave him some comfort.

"Will you be there tomorrow?" he asked, referring back to their earlier conversation. She was to meet him and Coulson at the Potemkin steps at three pm so that they could take her back to HQ with them. Their plane would take off at four-thirty so there wasn't much time for delay.

Natalia nodded, "three pm." She scanned the darkened street in which they stood, her eyes seeming huge as they lingered on the shadows before finally settling on his face. "I know that you are taking a chance by doing this," she acknowledged, "I won't let you down Clint, and no matter how this turns out, you will have my thanks for this."

He was moved by the sincerity in her voice but it was the sound of his name on her lips that made him feel certain that he'd done the right thing. Every encounter they'd had, from the fight in the tunnels, to getting drunk, to this conversation, had the weight of destiny about it, as if some enormous bell was chiming somewhere in the distance and things beyond his sight were falling into alignment. He'd never been a believer in destiny, he'd never believed in anything, but in that moment he believed that his life and Natalia's, for better or worse, were inextricably entwined.

She turned, walking away with her hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket, her red hair gleaming in the soft light thrown from replica victorian street lamps. So young and so troubled he thought as he watched her walk away. So young and the only thing that would save her life were the skills she had been forced to acquire, skills that would keep her alive but would force her into a life on the run, always looking over her shoulder for the bullet that would take her last breath. People like them did not die in their beds surrounded by grandchildren, they died alone in alleyways with fake ID's and nobody to mourn them. He didn't want that for either of them.

"Hey Nat!" he called, unable to let her walk away without saying something else, something that would lighten the sincerity of her last words.

She turned to face him, still walking backwards. He saw the slight curl of her lip as she considered the nickname that he had used and then the faintest trace of a smile as she accepted it. "Yes?"

"Wear something other than black tomorrow would you?" he requested. "It might help them to see past your name and to the woman underneath."

With a nod she turned and hurried off into the night, leaving him to head off in the opposite direction to the apartment. Coulson and Fury would be pleased with what he had achieved, he was sure of that, but he still had to think up a suitable explanation for his current state of intoxication when he got back. Somehow, he didn't think telling both men that the opportunity to get drunk with the Black Widow was too good to pass up was going to be good enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N:** _Quick update to tide you guys over. I have a really manic work week and will be away all weekend so it might take a few days before I can get anything else written and uploaded. Rest assured I'll get back on it as fast as I can :-)_

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"I don't know whether to consider this woman a bad influence on you or whether it's actually possible for you to have been a bad influence on her," Coulson informed him sarcastically.

At his side Clint tried to avoid squinting into the bright, mid afternoon sunlight, thankful that the dark glasses he wore would hide most of his discomfort from his handler. It wasn't so much that he had a hangover, but his condition was infinitely more fragile than it would have been had he not imbibed so much alcohol with a certain red-head. Vodka, it seemed, had still to develop any fondness for him the morning after he drank it in large quantities. "You think that I could be a bad influence on her?" he asked, "she's Russian, don't they drink vodka like water?"

"Well I hope she isn't as hungover as you are," Coulson remarked, smiling pleasantly, "it's going to be an interesting flight if I have to listen to both of you vomit all the way through it."

Clint decided not to argue, knowing that there was absolutely no chance of him vomiting during the flight. Yes, he had a headache and his eyes were sensitive to sunlight, but he would be fine in an hour or so. The worst of the experience had already passed him by and the less said about his return to their base apartment the better. He would think twice before he again put himself in a position to wake up worse for wear while still technically on a mission. "I'm still more than capable of doing my job," he assured the man at his side, conspicuous among the crowd in his standard black suit and white shirt combo. "Let's hope your 'man in black' get up doesn't spook her."

It wasn't long before he spotted her, a solitary fiery haired woman weaving her way through the crowds in their general direction. She had taken his advice and worn something other than black, opting instead for indigo denim that hugged her curves and a red shirt. She carried a black overnight bag in her left hand as she made her way toward them.

"This time you're early," she remarked when she was close enough to speak without drawing unnecessary attention. There was an edge of mild amusement in her voice, as if she considered his punctuality only mildly important.

"Well I hate to keep a lady waiting," he chuckled, wondering how it was that she could look so fresh-faced when his head was as fuzzy as it was. Natalia came to a stop before them, maintaining a safe distance in case she needed to react to a hostile manoeuvre. Clint wondered what had happened to damage the apparent trust she had shown in him the previous day and then realised that it wasn't him who was making her uneasy. She regarded Coulson with open speculation and Clint read her body language with the ease that he would have read the page of a book; she was unsure of him, shifting her weight from foot to foot while she made a decision about whether to bolt. He was still contemplating how to introduce them when Coulson stepped up and negated the need for him to get involved.

"Agent Phil Coulson," the man at his side announced, extending a hand in Natalia's direction. There was a long moment in which nobody moved and then she extended her own hand and took his palm.

"Natalia Romanova," she replied, meeting Coulson's eye without flinching. Absorbing the grip of his palm around her own, she appeared to make a decision that she would have to trust this man whom Barton had brought to meet her. "You're his partner?" she asked, glancing between the two men and seeking clarification.

Coulson stifled a laugh and smiled at her with genuine amusement. "Barton doesn't have a partner," he told her, "he doesn't always play well with others."

Clint saw her confusion, fleeting though it was before she locked it away again. "Coulson is my handler," he explained. "We're both going to escort you back to HQ."

Without comment she extended her hands in front of her, waiting for one of them to fix handcuffs around her wrists. Coulson glanced back at him and Clint shrugged, personally he didn't think that cuffs would be necessary or helpful as she would be just as dangerous an opponent handcuffed as she was when she was free, of that he was sure, but he would allow Phil to make the call.

"There's no need for that," was the response that Phil eventually gave, placing a hand on Natalia's arm instead and guiding her in the direction that they were headed. Clint fell into step on the other side of her, keeping his hands by his sides and trying to convince himself that he didn't want to look at her as they walked. It was damned hard not to track the way she walked, even harder not to appreciate the irony that danger could come in such beautiful packaging.

"Do you agree," she asked, "that there's no need to cuff me?"

Barton realised belatedly that she had turned her face to look at him and that the question was aimed at him. From the raised eyebrow that faced him on two different faces, both Natalia and Coulson had noticed his distraction. "I've been prepared to trust you up until this point so I don't see any reason to change that now," he told her calmly, hoping that neither of them would look at him too closely, " but for the sake of clarity, if you double cross me, don't expect me to hold back."

"If I double cross you I'll put myself in front of one of your arrows on purpose," she told him gravely. "As I said I'm looking for a fresh start not to start a war with SHIELD."

Clint couldn't help but believe her. He also couldn't help but notice the way that Coulson followed the interaction between them, his expression carefully neutral; Clint could almost hear the cogs turning in his friends mind as he tried to make sense of the dynamic that he couldn't possibly understand. Sometimes people who had survived similar wrecks, similar backgrounds, could see the scars clear as day in others, so it was for him and the woman at his side.

She was quiet throughout the journey, to the airfield and barely spoke as they boarded the jet. She didn't shut herself away entirely, answering questions when they were asked and occasionally posing an enquiry of her own but she otherwise kept her thoughts to herself. As the jet carried them closer to the facility where her interview would take place, Coulson kept a discreet eye on her, always alert for any sign that she might have something other than joining their cause in mind. He saw nothing that caused him concern, but plenty that surprised him. It surprised him more than a little that Clint Barton, a man who truly trusted maybe five people on the face of the planet, was willing to trust a Russian super spy with as many kills under her belt as he had under his own. It surprised him that Natalia Romanova, a woman who obviously had trust issues of her own, stayed so close to Clint throughout the journey and that she genuinely seemed to care for his opinion of her.

What he saw made him cautiously hopeful of their chances of assimilating the Russian into SHIELD.

"Tell me Natalia," he began, taking a seat opposite her, "do you have any particular reason for wanting to join SHIELD?"

She glanced at Barton, seemingly waiting for a confirmation from him before she continued. The archer nodded once, answering some unspoken question and she turned back to Coulson. Interesting.

Meeting his gaze, she sighed. "You know what I've done, all of the lives I've taken, all fo the things that make me a monster in the eyes of men?" At his nod she continued. "I've grown used to be being treated like an animal, looked at like a monster, people don't look at me and see Natalia any more, they look at me and see a weapon to be used how they will."

"And you no longer want to be a weapon," Coulson concluded.

She shook her head, "I want to be my own weapon," she replied. "I want to make amends for my past by helping to make a future where what happened to me does not happen to others and to know that when I use the skill set that I was forced to learn that it is for the right reasons." Again she turned her head and looked at Barton, who sat a small distance away. "SHIELD sent Agent Barton to kill me and he made a different call. I want to be the person he believes I can be. I want to wipe out some of the red in my ledger and he tells me that you are the best people to help me do that."

Finishing her speech, Natalia's thoughts appeared to turn inward and she turned her face to the window, staring out at the clouds. Coulson didn't press her further, it was interesting indeed that Barton and the Widow had talked of redemption and that Clint had convinced her that she could be more than a killer. He'd had a similar conversation with the archer when he recruited him to SHIELD a few years earlier. It had been the right choice, Phil Coulson had followed his gut then and it had been the right thing to do, he was going to have to do the same again. When they landed, he would go to Fury and put her case to him.

Fury would see the merit in having a woman like Natalia in their employ, though he would no doubt worry about the logistics of the arrangement. There would be probation and there would be assessment but the scenario had potential. There would be the need for supervision and the assignment of a partner in the first instance to help keep her in line, but it was possible and he, Phil Coulson, was prepared to fight her corner.


	8. Chapter 8

"How exactly did you get her to come in Agent?" Maria Hill asked, watching the two agents in front of her through the two-way glass. At her side Coulson tried to read her expression, wondering what reaction SHIELDs second in command would have to the red-headed spy who occupied the next room. There had been some disagreement between Hill and Director Fury as to what should be done with the Black Widow and in some cases Maria could be the harder of the two directors to convince of a person's potential for redemption, Coulson still remembered how much effort it had taken to convince her that Barton was worth the risk.

Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to his agent and the woman who sat across the bench from him in the room beyond. "Actually I had nothing to do with it," he admitted, "it was all Barton."

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. He saw the slight shift of Maria's shoulders as she absorbed that particular revelation. Hill's issues with Barton were manifold and variable but they had nothing to do with his work, seemingly centering on the fact that she felt Clint didn't show the proper respect for authority when dealing with senior agents. Coulson knew the truth of course, Clint respected those who he felt had earned his respect and the fact that he didn't roll over for people purely on the basis that they were further up the ladder than him did not make him a bad guy, it did however make him a good agent. He had people skills, charm and a fierce loyalty that made him exactly the man who Coulson wanted watching his back in the field but he wouldn't bend to the will of others because he knew how hard it would be for him to stand straight again if he did. Coulson had no problem with this, Hill apparently felt differently.

"Do you trust what she's told you?" Hill asked. There was nothing in her voice that would help him to find out what she was thinking; her expression was carefully blank.

"Barton does," he replied. In his opinion this remark required no further elaboration and had it been Fury standing at his side and not his second in command, he was sure that Barton's unerring instincts would have been evidence enough that Natalia was worth at least looking into. For Hill however, he would add something further. "He asked me to look into an organisation known as the Red Room after he met with her, everything she's told us seems to correspond with what we know about them. I believe her when she says that she wants a new start and I believe what she's told me about her past."

"The Red Room is a myth," Hill replied, head whipping around to face him, an expression of disbelief on her face. "We've never found anything but rumour and urban legend to suggest that it even exists …"

"I disagree," Coulson interjected. "I believe that there is living, breathing evidence of their existence in the next room and that if we wanted to know more about their operation we have the perfect source of information in that woman right there." He pointed through the glass to where Natalia sat, perfectly still, head leaning against the wall at her back and eyes closed. He was willing to bet a great deal that she wasn't sleeping and that her apparent ease didn't mean that her reflexes would be any less sharp than they were when her eyes were open and watching her surroundings.

Behind them the door opened and Fury stepped into the room, dressed in his usual attire of black leather trench coat and matching eye patch. His remaining eye was focussed on the view through the glass at his agent and the woman they had brought in for his consideration. "The board have concerns about the potential harm that this one woman could cause to our operation," he complained, tone conveying exactly what he thought of the board and their constant interference in the way he ran his operations. Stopping he watched the room beyond that in which they stood, "and frankly I can understand their concern. It's not every woman out there that can elude more than a dozen of our top agents with such apparent ease."

"I don't dispute that she could be a risk Sir," Coulson acknowledged, "but I think that she could be an asset. She's damned good at what she does and she's ready to jump. Whatever Barton has told her has made her think that we're the people to ally herself with and I'd be willing to oversee her probationary period. Surely it's worth testing out?"

Fury nodded slowly, silently, and Coulson got the distinct impression that he wasn't really listening to what was being said, he was far more interested in the two people he was observing. "They've been like this since Odessa?" he asked finally, turning so that he could see Coulson as he spoke.

Considering Barton and Romanova, Coulson saw what the director saw. Potential, virtually limitless potential. Whether it was conscious or unconscious, they had both assumed the same position, body language mirroring that of the other as they waited for whatever would come. Though he had first noticed it on the plane, he was struck once again by the similarity in the way that they moved, the way that they waited, a similarity that prickled at his instincts. He understood then that they were essentially the same, both inclined never to trust, that the apparent impassivity, their ability to shut down emotion and fear and pain, was the result of training and survival instinct. That they were able to trust one another, that anyone let alone another flawed and dangerous being could inspire even a flicker of trust in them, was nothing short of a miracle.

"Curious isn't it?" he remarked, unable to keep the awe from his voice. "They have no reason to trust one another and yet … "

Fury nodded, clearly contemplating the possibilities. On the other side of him Maria Hill, shifted position and cleared her throat. "We need to make a decision here Sir," she remarked, "I won't deny that bringing her in would solve a lot of problems but we shouldn't be hasty with this, an innocent lamb among wolves she is not."

"Oh I agree," Fury replied drily, "she could take us apart if the urge was upon her so we'll tread carefully. Let's keep her close and see where this goes." Turning on his heel, the director headed back toward the door through which he had entered stopping only for a moment before he stepped out into the hallway to impart one final remark. "You did well Coulson," he acknowledged, turning back to include Hill in his instruction, "now lets push her buttons and see how she reacts, I want to know exactly who and what we're dealing with here."


	9. Chapter 9

It was a good thing that she was used to high pressure situations. Had she been of a nervous disposition, she would have never made it through the day. Thinking of some of the other girls who had been chewed up and spat out by the Widow programme, she wondered how they would have held up under the pressure that she had been exposed to by the senior agents of SHIELD. Natalia didn't flinch though, she was strong enough to handle almost anything that they might choose to throw at her and she knew that there would be time later for her to consider the hoops that they were making her jump through.

First they had taken Barton from the room, leaving her alone to contemplate the enormity of the step that she was about to take. Solitude was her a familiar state to Natalia, as natural as the air she breathed. She knew what she wanted and that was to become something other than what she was, if SHIELD was the key to that, and she was almost certain that they were, then she would apply herself entirely to the goal of becoming part of their operation.

Barton had been brought back after a lengthy conversation, a thinly disguised interrogation, performed by a female agent who knew her craft. Though she could have turned the tables on her, Natalia had respected the skill that was shown and since she had nothing to hide other than the finer details of what she had endured in the Red Room's tender care, she had played the game and answered the questions put to her in as honest and straightforward a manner as possible.

"How'd it go?" he asked as he stepped back into the room and found her still sitting at the table where she had spoken with Maria Hill. Natalia could read the tension in his body language and knew that he was uncomfortable with the way she had been treated, though she didn't fully understand why.

She shrugged. "You tell me, I'm sure that you were watching or listening to the whole thing."

She'd been treated far worse so she couldn't complain about the enquiries that had been made of her, there had been no attempts to strong-arm information from her, no thinly veiled threats of violence and nothing approaching a threat of medical intervention if she failed to comply.

"They didn't let me stay for the interrogation," he admitted, "but they haven't sent you away yet so I'd guess you haven't given them any screaming red flags. They sent me down to escort you to your accommodations for the night."

Raising her eyes to meet his, she extended her hands again, offering him the opportunity to cuff her if he chose. "Restraints?" she asked, accepting the reality of her situation, she was a foreign spy currently at the heart of one of the biggest security agencies on the planet. If she were in their place, she would have considered restraints a reasonable precaution. "Come on Barton I won't keep giving you the chance to put me in handcuffs."

His chuckle was reward in itself. Natalia was surprised by how much his laughter mattered to her, by how much the tension in his body made her own unease spike. "Like you couldn't get out of a set of handcuffs with the appropriate provocation," he remarked with a shake of his head. It was true that she had learned how to free herself from many types of restraints during the years of her career but she didn't tell him that, it probably wouldn't do much to improve her standing here if they thought she could pull a Houdini on them whenever she chose to. Sometimes, she had learned, it was best to say nothing. "There's no need for cuffs, you aren't a prisoner and you'll be staying in quarters next to mine."

This unexpected development took her by surprise, she had expected to be quartered in a holding room like the one in which she had spent much of her day or in one of the containment cells that a facility like this must surely have. The fact that someone such as Barton or any of his superiors might show her an element of trust just blew her away.

She followed him along the hallways, barely tracking her surroundings as her mind whirled with the possibilities of becoming part of SHIELD and having the freedom to act according to her own conscience and will. The quarters that she had been assigned were functional, containing only what was needed, but it was more than she'd been given in the past. The tiny cell-like bedroom she'd had with the Red Room had been paid for in body parts and earned on her back beneath the men who held secrets that she was sent to extract, to simply be given a room in which to sleep was a luxury that she didn't take lightly.

"Try to get some sleep," Clint advised, "the plan is to put you through your combat paces in the morning, get a look at what you can do." He tilted his head to the right, indicating the next door along the hallway. "I'm just next door if you need anything," he told her, "but I wouldn't recommend that you go wandering any further than the door at the end of the hall Nat, your primary skill set might well lead people to assume the worst of you."

Clint knew that the doors at the end of the hall were locked and that a security card was needed in order to get through them but he preferred to let her believe that the choice was hers to make. Fury would be watching the footage in the morning to make sure that she didn't try to access any areas that she shouldn't. He assumed that since she wasn't a fool she would realise that the hallway, like most of the facility, was monitored.

"I won't wander anywhere I shouldn't," she reassured him. "Goodnight Clint."

Closing the door, she crossed to the bed in the corner and looked at the bag that sat atop it, weapons and enough clothing for a couple of days, most of the belongings she could call her own. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't had to fight for every little thing that she had, where she hadn't had to stay always one step ahead of those who pursued her. The thought of a space to call her own and an employer who would provide her with basic amenities such as food, clothing, weapons and a place to sleep was more than she had hoped for when Clint Barton had suggested that she consider changing her allegiances.

Gathering together her toiletries, she headed into the small adjoining bathroom and turned on the hot water to draw herself a bath. The reflection in the mirror above the sink stared back at her as she leaned on the counter, familiar, it was the face that she had seen staring back at her for as far back as she could remember and yet the person she saw was in many ways a stranger. Who was she really, beneath the cold anger that had fuelled her through her adolescence and all the things that she had done, was there more to her than a killer? Clint seemed to think so. Winding up her hair and pinning it on the top of her head, Natalia allowed the idea to circulate in her mind and take root. She could be more than she had been, she was sure of it.

The green eyes that stared back at her were steady and sure, unflinching in their certainty that she could be anything that she took it into her head to be. She took in the pale skin and the red hair that made her stand out from the crowd and wondered once again how someone with so much blood on their hands could look so innocent, so clean. Momentarily she saw herself as she truly was, blood splattering her face with freckles of red and arms coated to the elbows in blood, before she blinked and the reflection became fresh-faced once again. She had a chance to change and she intended to take it; she would reinvent herself and become someone whom others could depend upon, someone upon whom Barton and his handler with the kind eyes could depend.

Returning to the bedroom just long enough to shed her clothes, she came back to the mirror, standing before the glass as the steam of her bath coiled around her like smoke. Her face was hazy, a picture half formed and indistinct. How to begin? She was defined in her own mind by her name, the sound of those syllables enough to trigger the nightmares that she hid so well, raising memories of the way the men who had controlled her had spoken it as they berated her for not being all that they wanted her to be, for daring to have a conscience and mind of her own.

She reached out, raising a hand to wipe away the fog that covered the mirror and meeting the gaze of the woman revealed in the glass. She leaned in closer to the image and searched that face for an answer. She wasn't Natalia Romanova, not any more. She needed an Anglicized name, one that would be similar enough to her real name to honour the woman who had given her it, but different enough that people could believe that she was second or third generation Russian-American. She tried several names, sounding them out before the glass and finding that they didn't quite fit. Natalie Rushman, too American. Nadine Roman, too debutante. "Natasha Romanoff," she said aloud, turning the sounds in her mouth, trying them out and finding that she liked the fit. " My name is Natasha Romanoff."


	10. Chapter 10

"She's holding back," Clint announced, watching the opponents on the mats in the training room. He had watched with increasing frustration as Natalia had sparred with the agents who were sent out to face off with her, restricting herself to textbook manoeuvres that showed little of the ingenuity she had shown when grappling with him in those Ukrainian tunnels.

Maria Hill raised an eyebrow in his direction, "she seems to be doing just fine." It was true, Natalia could be described as doing well if the person observing her had never seen her fight like it mattered. Her moves were controlled, perfectly timed and showed impressive skill, but they didn't show any of the fire she had shown him. He who had of course seen an entirely different side to the woman before him, felt that it was a crying shame that his superiors weren't seeing the whole package. She wasn't just a good fighter, she was one of the best he had ever seen. "She displays impressive control and muscle memory for a woman trained primarily in espionage ..."

"Let me get in there with her," he suggested. "Give her someone she knows that she can cut loose with."

"Out of the question," Hill replied automatically, eyes still trained on Natalia as she traded hand to hand blows with the agent sent in to be her sparring partner. Fury said nothing, preferring to stay out of the discussion until he had made a decision.

Coulson looked over to where his agent was standing, arms crossed over his chest, clearly unhappy. Of all the people in the room, he was the only one who knew how truly impressed Barton had been after their first encounter in Odessa, he was also the only one who had seen the pair of them interact when they weren't under the scrutiny of SHIELDs most powerful agents. The potential in this partnership was unmeasurable and he personally was keen to tap into it, if only to see what the pair of them looked like when they were unleashed on one another. "If Barton says that there's more to see then I think it's worth a shot …" he ventured, "... what do we have to lose after all?"

Phil Coulson had a gift for reading people and he knew Barton way better than his agent thought he did. Since he had joined SHIELD Clint had thrown himself at just about every opportunity that came his way but it wasn't dedication to his new career that made him do it, it was the belief that if he could run fast enough and far enough, the past could never catch up with him. He had once been the one wreaking havoc with SHIELDs operations and he now worked extra hard so the people might not realise that he was that same man who had once been on their hit list. He saw something of himself in the Widow, Coulson would be willing to put money on that, he was almost willing to believe that he could see it himself.

The glance that Barton shot his way portrayed both surprise and appreciation but he said nothing aloud. The change in his body language was filled with a hopeful anticipation, as if he thought that his handler's words could tip the balance of the situation in his favour. Everyone in the room knew that he wouldn't have suggested engaging with her unless he really thought that there was more to see. He could be reckless sometimes but he was wasn't a fool and he had nothing to prove.

At Fury's nod, Clint left the room to suit up ready for a sparring session. The director, turned to look at Coulson, a clear question in his eye that he didn't need to voice. Instead of asking it he returned his attention to the red-head at the far side of the room who had just taken out the third female agent to face her that morning, pinning the blonde to the ground with a muscle wrenching arm bar that was in danger of tearing her shoulder from its socket. Natalia had barely broken a sweat.

"I hope you know what you're doing Coulson," Hill remarked. "If the stories we've heard about her have any truth to them surely we would have seen evidence of that before now, she's been remarkably placid."

Coulson smiled, "I know you haven't spent a great deal of time with Agent Barton but believe me when I tell you that the man can provoke a reaction from almost anyone. If you want to see what she can really do, let them go a few rounds. It would, I feel, be unwise to let this opportunity pass us by or to underestimate the trust that they seem to have in one another."

None of them, least of all Clint himself, missed Natalia's reaction to his appearance at the edge of the mat when he returned after changing into his workout gear and warming up. She seemed tense, anxious and worried about what he might be about to say to her. Though she masked her surprise and wariness well, it had been evident for a second and that was all it took when she was the focus of everyone's attention. She didn't like the fact that they suddenly appeared to be on opposing sides and that reaction alone gave him hope that he wasn't barking completely up the wrong tree.

"What …?" she started, trailing off when she realised that her words would carry easily through the cavernous space to the ears of the three senior agents who had been watching her.

"Relax," he instructed, moving toward her. "Your movements have been controlled and precise, they like that," he reassured her, "but we both know that you're holding back and I need them to see what you can do, for that you need to face someone you know you won't break if you throw a punch too hard. Besides, we both know you've been dying to get your hands on me again."

Natalia's response was a grumbled litany about male ego, uttered under her breath and in her mother tongue. Her expression was wary as she fell into a loose fighting stance, circling in time with him as he started to move. The first blow that he threw, she blocked but she didn't capitalise on the opening he gave her and he realised that she was still hesitant, unsure of where they stood with one another. Something in her eyes was testing the weight of his words but beneath that he saw a flash of interest and that made his adrenaline spike in readiness.

"Come on Spider, show me what you're made of," he teased, going on the offensive again. She moved with him, dancing back from his approach, impossibly quick as she skilfully deflected his attacks but she wasn't there yet, wasn't fully committed. Clint made a snap decision and prayed that it wouldn't backfire. Knowing that the fastest way to get her head and heart into the fight was to make her feel threatened, he feinted to the left and slammed his weight into her, lifting her clean off her feet and carrying her clear across the space until he brought them both crashing into the wall, her body beneath his own. As he expected, the impact got her attention.

The chop that she delivered was sharp and sudden and made his head ring like a bell as she struggled in his grip. A wicked smile bloomed on her features, her eyes flaring as adrenaline surged and she met his eye. He had her now, he knew it. She moved quickly, slamming her head forwards so that he had to rear back in order to avoid a busted nose, gravity working against him as she went on the offensive. She'd pulled a similar move in the tunnel but he still found that he could still be surprised by her speed. Capitalising on his movement, she coiled her legs around his waist and threw herself to the side, forcing him off-balance and taking him down to the mat where she rolled him over and pinned him to the ground, her knees trapping his arms at his sides and her forearm held to his throat.

"Be careful what you wish for," she told him mildly, landing a playful slap to his cheek. She backed off, letting him climb to his feet so that they faced one another again, "you might just get it Hawk."

He smiled, enjoying the deliciously feral look in her eye and the familiar feeling of exhilaration that came from fighting an opponent who could really match his skill. "Promises, promises," he chuckled, gesturing for her to come closer and take another shot at him.

From that point on she didn't hold back, meeting his attacks with a ferocity that tested his ingenuity, pushing him harder than he remembered being tested in a long while. Laughter bubbled up from within him as he truly began to appreciate the way she fought, matching his every movement as if they had been made to dance with one another, fists and feet flying as they tuned out everything but what was happening between them. She was like him but not like him: where he employed strength she brought precision, where she was ice he was fire, but they complemented one another perfectly.

As Natalia swung herself around a nearby pillar in the room with a gymnasts grace to land a kick to his chest that sent him stumbling backward, he found himself contemplating what it would be like to take her out on the training field and specifically the parkour course that he spent much of his time on. He wanted to see her in that environment he realised, to observe with his own eyes what she could do. Rolling with his backward momentum, he sprang to his feet and tackled her at the waist, drilling her to the mat where he could pin her momentarily before she slipped out of his grip again. He realised as he tried to find an advantage that he wanted Natalia to be the person who watched his back, the person who pushed him beyond his limits on the training field. It surprised him that he was able to consider trusting her after so short a period of time, not that he would trust her yet with his life, that kind of trust took months to build. Coulson had worked damned hard to earn that level of trust from him.

They only stopped when a sharp whistle cut through the air, stepping back to look at one another, dishevelled and breathing hard. The exertion had brought a glow to their cheeks and a light to their eyes that couldn't be denied - in the fight they had found themselves and they had found one another. Equals.

"You weren't lying Agent Barton when you said that she was holding back," Fury announced drily. "Do either of you need to visit medical after that little display?"

Natalia's reaction was instantaneous, shivers flickered through her body and her eyes became shuttered windows, blank and empty. "No Sir," she replied, voice curiously hollow.

"You sure?" Fury asked. "You're both bleeding …"

For the first time Clint realised that he could taste blood and knew that one of her punches had bust his lip, he could see a thin trickle of blood on her shoulder, perhaps where a boot might have caught her during the struggle. Neither of the wounds would be serious but that didn't mean that they should take chances. From then on, should they get the opportunity to do this again, he would make sure that he took more care of her, scars were an inevitability in their line of work but he didn't want to be the man who left any scars on her body or her soul. It seemed to him that she already had enough scars to last a lifetime. Strangely, he already felt oddly protective of her.

He didn't understand her aversion to medical but he wasn't fond of the place himself and he could see a possible alternative. "I could clean up the cuts," he suggested, there's a first aid kit in my quarters. It would give you all a chance to discuss whatever you need to discuss."

When Fury nodded, Clint escorted Natalia from the room. Left alone, the three senior agents tried to make sense of what they had seen. For two years now Barton had been at the top of their organisation, he was organised, careful and dedicated as well as being one of their top hand to hand combat agents, but they had never seen him the way he had been with the Widow. The pair of them moved with such grace, such controlled savagery, adapting to one another with the ease of established sparring partners, that it was easy to imagine they had been training together for months, years even. What could they do if they were allowed to get to know one another better?

"I don't think that there's much to talk about," Fury remarked, casting a glance at Maria Hill on one side and Phil Coulson on the other.

"I concur," Hill announced, "so long as the usual safeguards are put in place. We'll need to earn her trust but if we can convince Barton to help with that it would happen sooner."

Coulson said nothing, waiting for them to elaborate on their thinking. He was only present for this because he and Clint had brought her in and his opinion counted for little when it was weighed against that of the director and deputy director.

"Coulson, what do you think?" Hill asked, drawing him into the discussion whether he liked it or not. "Do you think it's possible?"

He sighed, "I think anything is possible." It wasn't a lie. A week ago he would have considered it impossible that his agent, a man who was by nature distrustful of himself and others, would flunk a mission just because the job didn't feel right when he saw the target.

"Then it's agreed," Fury nodded, "let's hope that we don't live to regret this."


	11. Chapter 11

The injuries were superficial, she knew without looking at them but she didn't argue when he insisted on doctoring them before they headed into a briefing with Coulson. Their regular briefings were something to which she was still becoming accustomed; their apparent willingness to trust her was still something to which she was becoming accustomed.

"Does it hurt?" Clint asked, perching on the edge of his bed so that he could see the cut on her temple more clearly. Sitting in his desk chair, she shook her head and then thought better of the motion when the room seemed to spin around her.

"Not really," she replied, "stings a little but it's nothing I can't handle." It wasn't a lie, she'd had a lot worse over the years and she had nobody to blame but herself for her current condition.

"Either you have a really high pain threshold or you're just tough as nails Nat," he chuckled, assembling an array of first aid supplies on the desk beside her. She was growing used to having him nearby and the easy way in which he moved around her, making fun of her in his lighthearted, tongue in cheek way, but she knew that there was a hint of concern in his remark too. Clint blamed himself for this injury, just as he had when he had caught her face with the heel of his boot during their first fight three weeks ago. This time she had caught the side of her face when she miscalculated a leap during their weekly trip around the parkour course and collided with a section of scaffolding through which she had to travel to reach the end of the course. When he had seen the blood he had insisted that she allow him to look at it in case it needed stitches, that was how she came to be sitting at his desk and allowing him to treat a wound that she would ordinarily have ignored.

She snorted but didn't try to move out of his grip as he examined her carefully. "Really Clint it's fine," she sighed, "it's barely even bleeding now." She wasn't lying, although the cut had bled profusely at first, the blood flow had slowed to a sluggish trickle that worked its way down the side of her face, already clotting without medical intervention. She was only sitting in this chair, surrounded by his belongings, to humour the man who had agreed to be her partner for the duration of her probationary period.

He was a good man, that was her assessment of him. He never asked her about her past, nor did he ask about the things that must have seemed strange to him; her aversion to medical being but one of the things that must have aroused his curiosity. He knew that she had secrets, that she probably had enough secrets to paint her arms red to the elbows, all of them bloody, but he didn't ask. He just took her in his stride and accepted her as she was.

She glanced around his quarters, similar but not identical to her own and wondered about the man who seemed to fit into her life like he was made to be there. Unlike her own spartan rooms, Barton's revealed snippets about the man who resided within them, small items that captured her attention and awakened her own curiosity about her partner. She cast an eye over the book case, taking in the titles that were displayed on the spines, her gaze taking in classics that were shelved alongside archery and firearms texts and the works of Irvine Welsh and James Ellroy. A mixture as diverse as Clint himself appeared to be.

The artwork on the walls was all monochromatic, predominantly featuring photographs of city skylines that were taken from impossible heights but there was one picture that didn't fit the pattern, a small, framed photograph that sat on the night stand by his bed. That picture always drew her attention and awakened her curiosity.

"Go ahead," he said, "ask."

She should have known better than to think that her curiosity would escape his notice. Clint was proving to be especially attuned to her thoughts and intentions, able to read her emotions with barely a glance in her direction. "What?" she asked, caught off guard by the openness he displayed.

"You must have questions," he explained, "so ask them."

She wasn't sure where to begin with all the things she wanted to know about him. Though she knew that it spoke of her need for control and her desire to understand everything about the man who was proving to be more of a friend than she'd ever had, she wanted to know him to the bones and blood, to understand him completely.

"The picture by the bed," she began hesitantly, "it's you?"

He didn't turn to look at the frame, didn't check to see where her gaze had fallen, just remained focussed on the wound that he was cleaning so diligently. "It is," he agreed, wiping the blood away with a cotton ball dipped in antiseptic. It stung but not enough to draw any reaction from her, "but that isn't really what you wanted to know is it Natasha?"

He had been one of the first to adopt her new name and the syllables now fell easily from his lips when he gave her the honour of her full name. Usually he just called her Nat, a nickname which she accepted with an ease that surprised her. "I was wondering about the other boy in the picture," she admitted, "who is he?"

Clint didn't reply immediately, a slight furrowing of his brow providing the only clue that perhaps the boy at his side in the picture was a subject he would rather avoid. "He's my older brother," he admitted finally, voice level and without emotion, "Barney and I … well, we're kind of estranged."

She absorbed that nugget of information, storing it away for further consideration later. It was obvious to her that the subject was a sore one and she had no desire to reopen old wounds if he didn't wish to talk about it.

"Things weren't exactly easy for us after our parents died," he explained, still concentrating on his actions rather than this words. Natasha wondered whether he was even aware of what he was saying to her, or whether he might be using his apparent focus on her injury to avoid meeting her eyes while he spoke, either way she let him talk. "We tried to stay together, orphanage first, then the circus but we just grew up to be very different people."

Something caught inside her, a breath stuttering on its way from her lungs to her mouth. She barely remembered her parents, had no memories at all of her father and those that she had of her mother were nothing more than a baby dream, fuzzy and pink edged with time, like the words of a Russian lullaby that she sometimes found herself humming when she was alone and desperate for sleep. It had never occurred to her that Clint Barton might be as alone in the world as she was. "I'm sorry," she said, "about your parents."

Clint nodded, turning his gaze to hers momentarily. "Thanks," he acknowledged, "it was a car accident, my dad was driving. I was eight so it's an old story, old pain, but I appreciate the thought."

"I lost my mother when I was young," she admitted, somehow unable to stop the admission, "there was a fire in our building." Now he looked at her, his eyes filled with impossible understanding. "That's how I ended up with the Red Room."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. Silence descended while he finished applying a neat line of steristrips to her skin, ensuring that the wound wouldn't reopen. When he began to gather the supplies together, ready for disposal or storage, he spoke again. "Mind if I ask you something?"

She minded a lot less than she thought she would. "Seems only fair," she agreed with a nod, "an answer for an answer."

He thought for a second as if deliberating over whether to say what was on his mind and then asked her the question that she suspected would be coming. "What's with you and medical?"

She gave him it in the simplest terms she could without being specific. She had promised herself that nobody would know the extent of the indignities that she had suffered growing up under the Red Room's tender care. "They used us as test subjects," she admitted, "I've lost count of the number of procedures I was strapped down for in the name of science."

His response was evident only for a second, swiftly leashed and locked away behind a carefully neutral expression. His anger surprised her but the disbelief didn't. No rational person would consider it acceptable to perform tests on a perfectly healthy human being. "No wonder you wanted to get away from them."

"A lot of the memories are hazy," she admitted, "but I'd still rather fix things myself whenever possible than relive the nightmares."

"Well you certainly won't get any shit from me on that subject," he informed her, "since I do the exact same thing myself. We'll just keep watch over each other rather than putting ourselves in the hands of medics."

He left her then, retreating to the bathroom to store the med kit and dispose of the bloodied cotton and gauze that he had been using. Natasha used the momentary solitude to look once again at the framed picture by the bed, wondering where Barney Barton was and whether he too felt the loss of his brother. Clint had a relative out there, alive and breathing somewhere in the world, and yet he was as much an orphan as she was, building a family around himself within the walls of SHIELD. She badly wanted to be a part of that family, to know that no matter what there was someone to whom she could entrust her life.

"You ready?" he asked, emerging with the same purposeful stride that she had grown used to. "Best not keep him waiting, he has a meeting with Fury later this afternoon."

Coulson was behind his desk when they arrived at his office, a precariously stacked mountain of paperwork cluttering the usually immaculate surface. Natasha had seen one or two of the files that he waded through on his desk during previous visits but never as many as she saw now. She'd never seen the usually immaculate Phil Coulson look quite so tired and rumpled before either and wondered how long he'd been there. "Ah there you are, have a seat," he exclaimed, looking up briefly as they stepped inside.

Clint ignored the instruction, moving instead to the coffee machine at the back of the room while Natasha sank into one of the seats opposite their handler.

"Long day?" Clint asked, already preparing Coulson's favourite mug.

"Something like that," their handler agreed distractedly. He thumbed through the file on the top of the pile directly in front of him, brow puckered in concentration. "Seems that there's a backlog of cases that haven't been cleared and I landed the job of handing out assignments."

As the aroma of fresh coffee drifted through the room, she sighed and settled in more comfortably. It was a sign of the longstanding relationship between the two men that Clint would just make coffee and place it on the desk of his handler without a word, doing what he could to make the paperwork burden more bearable. "Drink this, it'll help."

She caught the appreciative glance that Coulson gave Clint as the mug was placed at his elbow. Taking the seat beside her, he mirrored her position, relaxed but alert as he waited for Phil to speak.

Blue eyes sharpened as they took in the two agents seated before them. "What happened to your head?" he asked, looking directly at Natasha.

She sighed, "I misjudged a jump on the parkour course this morning. Nothing serious, just a scratch."

"You misjudged … how?" Coulson shook his head, "no forget it, I don't want to know. Are you fit for duty?"

She nodded, too startled by the exchange to form a verbal response. Clint's chuckle at her side told Natasha that the two of them had probably had remarkably similar conversations on many occasions. "You wanted to see us?" he asked.

"As I said earlier, we have a backlog of assignments and I have the unenviable tasks of clearing as many as I can," he paused, eyes assessing the pair before him. "Romanoff we need to get you a suit, you've had a few weeks to get used to working together and the signs are promising, it's time to put this partnership to the test out in the field."

She could sense Clint's excitement, it almost sparkled on the air around him. Natasha felt her own awareness sharpening, the thought of being off base and on an actual assignment where she could be useful providing a welcome distraction from the lingering ache at her temple. "Where are we headed?" she asked.

"Berlin," he replied, handing a file across the desk, which Clint indicated she should take, "jet leaves at 08.00."


	12. Chapter 12

She had seen Clint on the archery range, felt the strength of his body beneath her hands as they sparred together, but she had not fully appreciated the skill of the man until they went out into the field together. Logically she knew that she had seen him in the field before, that he was on a job the first time they met, but she hadn't fully appreciated just how focussed he was because she'd been too busy running for her life. It seemed alien to her now that the man at her side had once been a threat to her.

"You know what to do," he told her as they sat beneath the awning of a coffee shop two streets away from the office block in which their target was located. She appreciated the fact that he phrased the words as a statement rather than an enquiry. This wasn't her first trip around the park - just her first with backup. Natasha nodded, indicating that she was ready to do what needed to be done.

The plan was relatively simple, Natasha had already infiltrated the building and retrieved the files that they had been tasked with getting. Phase two of the plan involved them neutralising the threat that their target posed. She had ascertained where he would be that evening; they would handle the assassination together. She hadn't doubted the importance of the mission, all the evidence she had needed to accept the job was in the file that Coulson had handed them thirty-six hours ago in his Atlanta office. Tonight they would go hunting side by side, luring their prey to a place where they could work unobserved.

With a smile, she sipped from one of the coffee cups that sat on the table between them. "Piece of cake," she replied.

"You'll be in my sights the whole time," he added, draining the contents of his own cup in the manner that only an American could. Natasha didn't consider that a flaw, she knew that in a life like theirs there was rarely the opportunity to savour anything, not even the adrenaline rush that they both loved so much. "Just say the word if things get too hot and I'll provide a distraction so that you can get out of there."

"Got it," she acknowledged, turning her head to watch him rise to his feet. She didn't ask any questions, merely dropped the appropriate number of marks on the table to pay for their drinks and collected her belongings. Side by side they walked along the street, inconspicuous in their dark clothes, blending effortlessly with the crowds on their way home from work. About halfway there Clint disappeared from her side, slipping into an alleyway and disappearing into the shadows. Natasha caught only the briefest glimpse of him scaling walls and fire escapes so that he could access the rooftops and then continued on alone.

The wine bar where Karl Austerlitz was meeting with his contact was a classy establishment and she was glad as she stepped inside that she had worn the dress that Barton had picked out for her earlier in the day. Her task was to keep a close eye on him and tail him when he left the bar so that they could find a suitable location to do what was needed. She settled at the bar and ordered herself a glass of white wine, toying with the glass as she waited for the opportunity to present itself.

It didn't take her long to spot him among the patrons, a tall man who radiated arrogance through the cut of his clothing and the way he summoned staff to wait on his table. It didn't take him long to hone in on her, his predatory mind seeing an opportunity to buy her company with expensive wine and trinkets. The grin that he turned her way when he approached her was so full of arrogance that she wanted to knock it off his face with one vicious swipe of her fist but she didn't. Natasha bit back her temper, smiled and played the game, allowing a man who made her feel physically sick to believe that he was the player he believed himself to be.

It was nearing nine when they left the bar, the cold October wind ensuring that no-one lingered on the streets longer than necessary. It was already dark and she led him through darkened alleyways, following the route that she and her partner had agreed before separating to carry out their respective duties. Austerlitz was a few metres behind, no doubt enjoying the thought of playing a game of cat and mouse with the woman he believed himself to have bought and paid for in the wine bar. She had asked him to follow a little way behind her, feigning concern about her reputation while giving him the kind of looks that she had learnt men could easily read too much into.

Heels clicking on the pavement she led him exactly where she wanted him and then paused, deliberately adjusting the strap of her shoe beneath a flickering street lamp to let him get closer. She hadn't seen Barton since leaving the bar but they had agreed on their preferred site for an ambush and she didn't doubt for a second that he was right there with her.

"You live around here Sweetness?" she didn't acknowledge the question with an answer, just glanced up and smiled at him briefly, drawing him in. "Everything okay?"

"These shoes are killing me," she explained, "help a girl out would you?"

As he bent down to help her out of the offending shoes, she moved fast and decisively, slamming her knee up into his face and following it with a right hook that would have made Tyson proud. Austerlitz wasn't the kind of man who had risen to the top of his field without taking a few blows though and he came up swinging, fist barrelling toward Natasha's face. She caught the limb, twisting her body in close to his own where he couldn't get to her. Shoes discarded, she hit him hard in the ribs with an elbow as she fired a quick kick into his shin and wrenched his body over her shoulder.

He didn't stay down for long, despite the impact. Getting his feet under him, he managed to land a blow to her face, throwing her off-balance . She found herself thrown against the brick wall on her right. Forced to throw up her hands to stop her face from colliding with the brickwork, she to threw her weight behind a kick to his midsection, putting distance between them so that she could assess her next move.

Her brain registered the movement of his hand as it disappeared inside that jacket faster than she could form thought and she reacted before she even saw the handgun emerge, dropping low and kicking upwards to connect with the underside of his jaw. He staggered and as he did an arrow plummeted through the air to embed itself in the centre of his chest, an almost silent kill shot that originated from above her. Austerlitz staggered back, the momentum of the shot carrying him back until it eventually caused him to fall. The sound of his laboured final breaths were the only sound to cut the night as she climbed to her feet and brushed the dirt from her dress.

Booted feet hit the ground somewhere over her left shoulder, the soft sound of the impact belying the fifteen foot drop from the nearest fire escape. "Nice work," he told her, dropping his weapons bag to the ground, "set the shot up perfectly."

"You too," she told him, turning to look into the shadows, eyes seeking out the familiar features of her partner, "and thanks …"

She noticed the widening of his eyes in surprise at her gratitude but he didn't make a big deal of it, merely acknowledging it with a nod. She watched him as he approached the body, now barely breathing as his blood pooled on the ground beneath him, the expensive suit that he had been so proud of slowly changing from grey to black in the still flickering light. Face impassive, Barton removed the arrow from the body with a quick efficient movement that spoke of many years practice and she wondered how many times he had performed the same manoeuvre after a kill.

Dressed entirely in black, with his bow slung over his shoulder and a dozen deadly arrows quivered at his back he was an intimidating figure, deadly and precise, exactly the complement to her own skills, yin and yang. He came back to her, placing a hand at the side of her face so that he could tilt it toward the sputtering light. His fingers were warm against her skin despite the chill of the night as he assessed her for injuries. "Just checking that you didn't pop your stitches from the other day," he explained. She let him have his moment and then crouched to pick up her shoes when he released her, slipping them back onto her stocking covered feet. "Guess they weren't hurting after all huh?"

She smiled, "there's nothing I could do in combat boots that I couldn't do in these."

"Don't know about that Nat," he chuckled as he grabbed his bag and they started to walk away into the night, "not sure that walk you were rocking earlier would have the same effect in combat boots."

She laughed a genuine laugh that rang out into the dark, a little embarrassed that he had picked up on the slight change in her gait that had been intended to attract Austerlitz closer. "Maybe not," she acknowledged. They fell into step with one another, a comfortable silence descending as they walked away from the body of the man they had just killed together and headed back to the apartment in which they would crash for the night.

At the small table in Clint's room, they toasted the success of their first mission together, Natasha forgoing her customary vodka in favour of a beer that matched his own. They had made an anonymous call to the police, reporting the location of Austerlitz's body, Natasha's aptitude for languages coming in useful, and then stopped at a late night store to buy alcohol.

"You think they'll have another job for us?" she asked, curling her wrist around the bottle and holding it to her collar bone.

Clint smiled, "depends how far Coulson's got with his backlog of assignments I guess."

"I just like to feel useful," she admitted, " I don't think that I was made for sitting around, I like to keep moving."

"Oh I hear that," he agreed, raising his beer in salute to her. She believed that his words were genuine, it was easy to imagine that she was speaking to a man who would understand the urge to keep moving and the drive to undo past misdeeds. "Here's to SHIELD keeping us busy."

She raised her bottle, tapping it against his own and drank deeply. "And here's to me being able to actually wear that suit that Coulson had made for me," she added, indicating the dress that she still wore, "I might be able to fight in a dress but no-one's going to take me seriously in this."

"Don't know about that," Clint replied, "wouldn't matter what you were wearing, I'd still take you seriously Nat." Just as she was about to reply a wicked smile bloomed on his lips. "Though I have to tell you make that dress work damned well for you …"

On impulse she pulled the cushion from the chair behind her and threw it at him, their mingled laughter echoing around the room as she sauntered to the window and bent down to pick up her discarded shoes. When the laughter subsided and the cushion was once again back where it belonged, she gestured toward the door. "I'm going to turn in," she announced, "early flight in the morning. Good night Clint."

He waited until she was almost at the door before he replied, "night partner."

Out in the hallway, she walked the short distance to the door of her own room with a smile on her face. She'd never wanted or needed to work with another, always knowing that the other agents of the Red Room were the type who would stab her in the back at first opportunity, but working with Clint Barton was proving different. Together they were strong, strategic and they seemed to understand one another better than she would have thought possible. Partner; she liked the way that sounded after all.


	13. Chapter 13

**_A.N: _**_Starting to wrap this one up now - maybe another chapter or two and then we're done. Hope I do Natasha's growing awareness of her partner justice here. _

* * *

"Just a few more steps," she reassured him, keeping her body tucked in close to his side as they disembarked the jet. Six missions in five weeks had taken a toll on both of them, leaving them physically and emotionally exhausted but tonight it was Clint and not herself who bled for the cause. His pain was communicated not in words, but in the shortness of his breath and the manner in which he leaned on her as they walked slowly down the ramp to the tarmac, his confusion evident in the way he relied on her to navigate for him, "almost there."

"Don't let them see …" he begged, leaning heavily on her shoulder, "not yet, not when there are so many people around."

Natasha fought the automatic impulse to argue with him. Were their situations reversed, it would have mattered to her that she made it as far as possible on her own two feet. The walk down onto the landing strip was like a right of passage, if he did it on his own two feet then he had made it back to base and he could surrender himself into the care of the medical team with his pride intact.

The medics were waiting for him, the pilot having called ahead to warn them that there was an agent requiring medical attention aboard the flight. Had it been a leg or an arm that required attention, he probably would have refused the trip to the infirmary as was their habit, but no agent would take risks with their sight. For an archer, the possibility of vision damage was more catastrophic than the loss of a limb.

The job had been a three-day affair, an indication of the directors' growing faith in their partnership, and a textbook operation right up until the last few moments. She and Clint had already taken out eleven enemy operatives that day in and around a warehouse complex in Peru, eight of them quietly and without incident on the outside of the building, and three within, without raising any alarm when it happened. Instinct and training had taught them both to tread lightly, seven missions together had taught them how to move around one another without drawing attention and they were already confident that they could be home by nightfall.

The twelfth operative came at them out of nowhere, materialising out of shadow as they swept the top floor of the building. With the element of surprise in his favour he had managed to separate them, throwing Natasha into the side of the building before she had even realised he was there and forcing Clint out onto the balcony when he came to her defence. There were a hundred different ways that the events could have gone down but it had happened so quickly that she could barely make sense of it when she tried to fill in the blank spots in her memory.

The one thing that she remembered with crystal clarity, the sight that was going to haunt her for the foreseeable future whenever she closed her eyes, was the image of Clint absorbing a vicious uppercut to the chin that sent him crashing through that rotten railing and plummeting to the man-made pool below. Frozen by the horror of what she was seeing, she had watched him fall, hitting the water face first and sinking beneath the surface. Natasha remembered screaming his name as she reclaimed the twin Beretta handguns and shot the Peruvian twice in the back, kill shots, perfectly aimed at his heart and lung. The view from the ledge had been dizzying, the water surging and resettling where her partner had landed. Then came that tight feeling in her chest and the sensation that time was slowing to a crawl around her, her priorities shifting between one heartbeat and the next. She remembered launching her body off that balcony without a second thought when she realised that Clint hadn't surfaced, executing a perfect dive from a height of more than fifty feet because nothing had mattered more than helping her partner.

The moments after she dragged him, barely conscious and disoriented from the water would be etched on her memory as long as she lived. Natasha had half carried him from the site, stumbling down the mountainside to their rendezvous point, yelling at their field unit to get them back to base as quickly as possible.

He had been so quiet, conscious but only barely as they bounced over the rough terrain on the way back to the airstrip, every jolt in the road seeming to worsen the pain in his head. She had been the first to notice that there was something different about his eyes, that the intensity of his gaze was somehow altered. Forcing his admission that he couldn't see her properly from his lips had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done but it had renewed her determination to get him home and get him the help he needed.

Together they limped toward the doctors, Natasha aware that they looked like they had been to hell and back. Bleeding from a knife wound to the neck and covered in dirt and scratches from the trip down the mountain, she looked physically worse than Barton did, but his head injury was the main cause for concern. The medics converged on them, pulling his body from her grip so that they could ease him onto a waiting gurney, already talking about scans and x-rays. None of them seemed to notice that the sound of their voices disoriented him further, his brow furrowing and displaying his unease.

Clint's fingers reached out and dug into her own, his grip strengthened by the fear that had to be coursing through him. Natasha ignored the pain in her wrist and moved closer, leaning in so that she could hear the words he wanted to share with her. "Go," he told her with impossible understanding, knowing better than anyone that he was headed to a place that would trigger all kinds of memories for her, none of them good. "I'll find you when they let me out."

Neither of them acknowledged that it might be a while before the doctors were willing to let him out of the infirmary. Neither of them voiced the possibility that his sight wouldn't recover, some things were better left unsaid. Hope would serve him better than despair in the hours and days ahead.

"Medical One is prepped, Streiten is waiting for him." Following numbly in the wake of the gurney, Natasha wondered why the world was moving so slowly around her. Through endless hallways, she stayed close to him, finally coming to a stop when they wheeled him through the double doors of the infirmary's assessment suite. There she stopped, her desire to run conflicting with the need to stay close to her partner. One of the medics who met them from the jet solved her quandary, informing her that she would have to wait until the scans were complete before she could join them and suggesting that she wait in the room that they had set up ready for him.

The room alone was enough to set her nerves on edge. Pacing the space, fingers digging into her own arms, she tried to calm herself. The room was not like the one she had been confined to back in Russia and that helped her to keep a lid on her panic response, but it was obviously a medical environment and she wasn't comfortable there. Exploring, she found a small bathroom adjoining the room and stepped inside to try and calm herself. Functional. Clean. She took in the fittings as her blood thundered through her veins, chaining her muscles and bones in place as she braced her hands on the edges of the sink and bore down until her shoulders screamed. "Clean up and get a grip," she told herself, lifting her eyes to the mirror.

Bone weary and splattered with blood, Natasha stared at the reflected image in the glass above the sink. The blood and dirt smeared across her features like warpaint did little to conceal the knowledge in her eyes or the tiredness that seemed to emanate from her pores to saturate the air around her. Seeing her true nature reflected back at her was not a surprise but for the first time she wore blood that she had shed in defence of another.

Under normal circumstances she would have wanted nothing more than to stand under the spray of a scalding shower, washing away the evidence of the truth, erasing any traces that lingered of who she was and what she used to be, before climbing into bed and sleeping for a week. She would not be doing that though, circumstances were far from normal and she had a far more important charge to occupy her time. Tonight she would put aside her fears to focus on what mattered, her partner was hurt and vulnerable and she wouldn't, couldn't, leave him alone in such a state.

Hill arrived shortly after they brought Clint back from his scans, her body language betraying the surprise that she felt when Natasha stepped out of the bathroom and into her line of sight. They had sedated him to keep him calm, concerned that further movement might impede his healing and he had been close to motionless since his return. The lack of movement didn't bother her, Clint was a sniper, he could maintain the same position for days waiting to take a shot if he had to, but the lack of sound bothered her a lot. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed too loud in the silence of the room.

"You look like hell," she remarked, eyes searching Natasha's face as if looking for answers to all of her questions. Natasha was too tired and concerned about her partner to think about hiding her emotions, Hill could think what she wanted. She indicated the blood that still clung to Natasha's skin despite her half hearted efforts to clean it away. "Is any of that yours?"

"Some of it," she replied, drying her hands on a towel and moving to Clint's bedside where she dropped gracelessly into the chair, eyes never leaving the senior agent on the other side of the bed. "Coulson?"

"On his way back from a meeting at a secondary facility," Hill replied, before turning her attention back to the previous topic. "Have you seen a doctor Romanoff?"

Natasha shook her head, "I'm not leaving him." Truthfully she no longer noticed the aches and pains, she hadn't from the moment she realised how badly Clint was hurt. Her gaze flickered back to her partner. They had covered his eyes and the bandages were pale as snow against his skin, only serving to highlight the injuries that couldn't be seen when anyone looked at him.

"I spoke with his doctors on the way in, they're analysing his scan results now but they're hopeful that the … the changes in his vision are temporary." Hill edged closer to the bed, her expression one of concern as she really looked at him for the first time. "Barton will really struggle to accept it if the effects are permanent …"

"Shouldn't he?" Natasha shot back, angered by the choice of words. "He's an archer Maria, his entire identity is built on his unusually acute eyesight. Shouldn't the loss of something that makes him excel be difficult for him?"

To her credit, Hill didn't argue simply held up her hands in acknowledgement of Natasha's anger. The hard truth, as they both knew, was that a visual impairment would put an end to Clint's ability to use a bow effectively. "You're the only person who saw what happened out there so I'm going to need you to file a report about what went down …"

"Bring the paperwork to me and I'll do it here."

"We usually do this kind of thing on video," Hill explained, one hand gripping the rail that ran along the side of Barton's bed. "Barton's injuries have to be accounted for, Fury will have to go before the council…"

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, fighting down the irritation. She had no idea where these emotions were coming from, she'd never been the type of woman to allow emotion to rule her. "Make an exception."

Hill's eyes flashed, a look of disbelief passing over her features. "I don't think you appreciate how important …"

Natasha cut her off by slamming her open palm down onto the cabinet beside her, rising to her feet to emphasise the point that she was about to make once and for all. "I am not leaving him!" she snarled, before reining in her temper. It wasn't just Maria Hill, it was the room and the medical apparatus and sight of such a physical, vital person lying so still in front of her. She was a powder keg of emotions and the words that were being thrown around were the sparks that would tip her over the edge. She took a deep, steadying breath, "he is my partner and until he wakes up don't ask me to go anywhere because the answer will always be no. I don't care how important the interview is, he comes first."

Hill nodded, releasing her hold on the bed and stepping back to the door. As the door opened, Natasha caught sight of Fury out in the hallway talking to one of the medics, presumably Dr Streiten who had treated Clint. A look passed between the two directors and Hill offered the slightest shake of her head to an unspoken enquiry as the door swung closed.

Coulson burst into the room a while later, the perspiration on his forehead and his shortness of breath telling her everything she needed to know about his haste to reach them. His presence, unlike that of the constantly bleeping machinery, was welcome and she drew comfort from it.

She had passed the time since Hill's departure alternating between pacing the room and talking to Clint, her fingers reaching out occasionally to rest on his arm so that he would know she was there. She was not a woman accustomed to offering reassurances or sentiments and the need to do so confused her, making her wonder if her partnership with Clint was beginning to change her in some way that she didn't yet understand. Coulson was the only other person at SHIELD that she had spent much time with, the only other person that she came close to trusting. The look on the older man's face conveyed all she needed to know about his feelings; he too cared about Clint and did not like seeing him hurt.

"Oh shit." The words escaped him on an exhale, quiet enough that in most rooms they would have gone unheard, but she heard them and she thought them apt word choices indeed. Natasha could well imagine the surprise of the sight that had greeted their handler when he stepped into the room. "They didn't give me all the details, what happened?"

"He fell," she replied, "hit his head badly when he landed."

"How did you know that something was wrong, did he tell you?"

Shaking her head, Natasha tried to explain. "He was barely conscious and wasn't making much sense when I pulled him out of the water," she admitted, "but the way he moved and the way his eyes looked …"

There was no judgement in Coulson's eyes when he looked at her, just the same concern that she was feeling. "Last I heard they were treating him for a concussive head injury," he paused, swallowed, "What about his sight, have they said anything?"

Natasha shrugged hopelessly, fighting past the lump that suddenly seemed to have formed in her throat. "We won't know until he tells us."


	14. Chapter 14

Though he knew that both of his erstwhile charges had a penchant for avoiding medical attention, it surprised him that Natasha had forgone treatment to stay at Barton's side. The archer's condition was a shock but the woman at his side also needed attention and Coulson recognised it the moment he set eyes on her. He listened intently as she recounted the events that had led to his agent being in the bed before them, hearing the things that she didn't say along with those that she did. He couldn't fault her for leaving out the finer details, they would come later when she had fully processed what had happened. He could afford to be patient and wait until she was ready.

"Why don't you take some time, clean up?" he suggested when she had once again fallen silent, troubled eyes resting on her partner. Her expression was one of irritation when she looked up at him.

"Are you kidding?" she asked. "My partner is lying in a hospital bed and you're worried about the fact that I haven't taken a shower since we got back?"

He was ready for her anger, prepared for it. "No," he explained patiently, "I'm worried about what Barton's going to think when he wakes up and sees you sitting beside him looking like that." It wasn't a lie; given the unusually protective way that he looked at Natasha Romanoff, Barton was likely to flip if he woke up and saw her looking like she'd skinned someone alive and bathed in the entrails. "Nobody is going to think less of you if you take a shower Natasha."

She couldn't argue with the reasoning and that was what made her relent to Coulson's prompting in the end. He had someone find her ready bag, which had been brought into the infirmary from the jet along with Barton's belongings, and reassured her that he would stay with Clint in her absence. Closing the door behind her, Natasha turned on the faucet and set the clean clothes that she had gathered on the counter. She didn't bother to look in the mirror again, not needing the reminder of what she looked like, instead the stripped out of her suit and let it fall to the floor.

Stepping into the shower stall required more strength and co-ordination than she seemed to have in her weary condition and she stumbled as she stepped inside, biting back a hiss as she planted her aching wrist against the tiles to keep from falling. Her limbs trembled as she turned her face up into the spray, allowing the water to wash away the dirt and blood and guilt. She had held herself together while she sat beneath the gaze of Hill and Coulson, while she sat at Clint's side, but now it all caught up with her and she gave into the moment, letting herself feel what her mind and body demanded.

Pain throbbed through her body, the spray, so much hotter than the icy depths of that pool she had dived into to save him, causing the scrapes and cuts that adorned her body to flare to life. The water ran red, pooling around her feet and the drain over which she stood, and she gripped her arms hard enough to leave a new set of bruises in her skin as she fought against the thought that she was to blame for his injuries, that her presence had somehow compromised him and led to him going over that railing. She did not want to be the reason that Clint 'Hawkeye' Barton had to retire.

After towelling herself dry, she wiped the mist from the mirror and looked at herself once again. Cleaned up she was surprised by how little there was to see, only the knife wound to her neck and a few bruises to show for what had been frankly a horrific day. Dressing quickly in jeans and a simple white tank top, she combed through her hair and stepped back into the treatment room, needing to be with the two men who had believed in her strongly enough to give her a chance.

"Will you let me take a look at that?" Coulson asked, gesturing toward the wound in her neck. It had been over an hour since she had emerged from the bathroom and they had passed it with brief snatches of conversation and longer spells of comfortable silence.

Natasha hadn't really given the wound much thought, just clamped a piece of gauze to it after she returned from her brief shower and hoped that it would heal cleanly and without leaving an obvious scar. "Since when do you do first aid?" she asked, too startled by the offer to think about what she was saying.

Coulson chuckled slightly, rolling his eyes at her in a good-natured way. "I haven't always been a handler you know Natasha, besides I've had a lot of practice in patching Barton up over the years."

She didn't think it was strictly necessary but she let him fuss anyway. His movements were those of a man well versed in first aid and field triage, economical, gentle and efficient. For several moments, neither of them spoke, Coulson focused on his task and she focused on her still sleeping partner, but quickly she began to find the silence slightly oppressive. "I don't know if I'm meant for this Phil," she admitted quietly, eyes fixed on Barton so that she wouldn't have to make eye contact with their handler, "working alone means that you never have to sit like this willing someone else to wake up and be okay."

Coulson's hand stilled, his eyes lifting so that he could look her in the face. "It also means that you never know what it's like to have someone else watching your back," he replied quietly.

"That's just it … if I was the partner that he deserved, he wouldn't be in this place." She sighed, letting go of the words that had been circling her thoughts since the moment she had realised just how hurt he was. "I feel like I failed him."

Coulson sat back in his seat, watching her for a long moment before he spoke again. "I don't believe that for a second," he told her, voice soft but firm. "You aren't used to having a partner, I know that you've never been able or willing to trust anyone until you wound up here. Clint is just like you, he doesn't trust people Natasha, doesn't let anyone into his life because that way they can't leave him or betray him, but he trusts you."

"I'm not exactly known for bringing good luck to people; people around me have a tendency to wind up dead …"

"Do you remember what I told you in Odessa, that Barton doesn't play well with others? Well that was the truth. Clint has existed as a part this organisation for years but he's never been part of a team, he's never trusted any of the others enough to watch his back in the field." Coulson took a breath, letting her absorb the weight of his words. "Nobody is expecting this to be easy for either of you, we anticipated teething problems but you've both handled the transition way better than we could have predicted." Coulson paused for a moment, making sure that she was looking at her before he spoke again. "Actions speak louder than words Natasha and today you leapt fifty feet into a lake to save him, right after you put two bullets into the man who put him there."

Natasha tipped her face toward the ceiling, contemplating the faith that Coulson seemed to have in their partnership. "I hate this," she murmured finally, "his pain is harder to handle than my own."

"Such is the burden of caring about someone," he agreed. "Now let me finish dressing that wound."

It was Natasha who noticed the movement of Clint's limbs a few hours later and realised that the sedatives were beginning to wear off. Coulson had left a short time earlier to talk to Fury, leaving her alone with her partner, and she had used the time to think about the advice that he had offered. Was it simply a case of not being used to having someone watch her back that made her feel so much empathy for him, or was it something more? Could she bring anything but bad luck to their partnership?

Her hand was resting over his arm when he groaned and raised his free hand to his face a short time later. She could see the confusion written on his features, the unease at not knowing exactly where he was. Instinctively, she squeezed his fingers and was rewarded by the tightening of his own grip.

"That you Nat?" he asked, voice slightly hoarse.

"It's me," she replied softly, "how are you feeling?" She didn't ask about his vision because she wasn't sure that either of them were ready to face the answer to that question, not yet.

He turned her palm over, his calloused fingertips tracing the contours of her hand as if he could use it to identify her, a slight frown possessing his features. She could only assume that he was waking up, taking stock of where he was and what was happening. His grip on her hand tightened as he began to tremble violently, every muscle twitching beneath his skin.

"Clint...?" Unsure of what to do, she stood and moved closer to the side of the bed, twisting her wrist and letting his hand fall into hers, a silent show of support that came as easily as drawing her next breath.

He swallowed, once, twice, trying to find his voice again. Natasha watched the pulse in his throat jumping and wondered how close to panic he was beneath the bandages and the layer of calm that he seemed to be striving for. She pulled her hand away just long enough to lower the safety bar at the side of the bed, the mattress shifting as she climbed up by his side, her hip coming to rest against his own. She used her proximity to anchor him to his surroundings, giving him the contact of someone he knew and trusted. Her nearness seemed to ease him and he took a few deep breaths, regaining control of his emotions. One hand found hers again, the other resting over the bandages that covered his eyes like he was shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Is it permanent?"

She had no words to describe the bleakness of his words and no way to offer him the certainty he needed. "The doctors say it's most likely temporary but they aren't taking any chances," she told him. "They sedated you for the scans, you've been out for the last few hours, it's Friday morning."

She noted his surprise at that part of her announcement and reasoned that it must be difficult to have any concept of time when all visual indicators were removed from the equation.

"You've been here the whole time?" he asked, turning his head toward the sound of her voice. "Why?"

Natasha shrugged, momentarily forgetting that he couldn't see her. She knew that he understood though, the movement of her shoulders would give her away. "You were hurt, where else would I be?"

After a moment of impossible silence, all of things they both wanted to say filling the space but none of them making it out of their mouths, he finally spoke again. "I think you saved my life Nat," he told her. "When I hit the water I think I blacked out. I was too disoriented, couldn't figure out which way was up and which was down. I'd have drowned in that lake if you hadn't come in after me."

She realised that she had held her breath as he spoke. She had known how disoriented he was when she pulled him out, watching him vomit up lake water as his body remembered how to breathe and forced him to get with the program, but she hadn't known that he had tried to find his way to the surface and failed. If he had been alone on that mission, he might never have made it home. If anyone else had been in his place all those weeks ago, she wouldn't have been alive to save him. Once again she felt the hand of fate at work in their partnership and it frightened her; in her experience fate and destiny were cruel mistresses and they had little regard for those they moved around like chess pieces. "You don't know that," she replied.

"Will you stay here with me?" he asked, words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush, as if he was afraid of what her response would be. "It's disorienting to have my eyes covered and my other senses only tell me so much, having you or Phil here will act as an anchor and help me to deal with things."

Knowing that he wouldn't ask if he didn't feel vulnerable, she responded in the only way she could. "You're my partner Barton," she sighed. "I'm not leaving this room until you do."


	15. Chapter 15

In the absence of his sight, Clint found that his other senses rushed in to fill the void. He quickly learned to differentiate between Natasha's breathing and Coulson's, to know the tread of their footsteps and recognise the smell of them so that even when neither of them was speaking he knew who was present in the room with him. The human body amazed him in the way it compensated for the sense that was suddenly missing, but acute hearing or being able to recognise someone by smell wouldn't help him get back to the range and hit a bullseye, for that he needed his eyes.

"The doctors are going to remove the bandages later today," Coulson explained, "they want to assess what's going on with your vision now that they've given things some time to settle down."

From the bed, Natasha and Clint turned toward their handler, Clint tracking her movement by the shift of the mattress beneath him. She was once again sitting up beside him on the bed, her hip pressing against his own. The contact calmed him and he was glad of it. He cleared his throat, "what happens if …"

His partner's hand clamped down around his wrist. "Dont ..." she told him firmly, "... don't do that to yourself Clint."

Barton absorbed the strength that she offered, reasoning that if a woman as practical and logical as Natasha could believe in him then he could do the same. It seemed only fair after all.

"We'll deal with it," Coulson replied, "no matter what, we'll deal with it."

It reassured him a little that Coulson was maintaining a positive outlook on things and it made him try to be positive himself. The ache in his head and the fuzziness that he had felt when they had arrived back at base was no longer there but his eyes had been covered so he couldn't count that as a definitive sign of progress. The bandages would have to come off before any of them knew where they stood. He could only hope that things would work out for the best.

When Natasha emerged from the bathroom a while later, freshly showered and feeling decidedly more awake than she had in hours, she found Clint alone. He was lying on his back, both fists pressed tightly to the bandages over his eyes sockets, his breathing deep and determined. Unsure of how to proceed she paused just inside the room and tried to think of something to say to him.

"I asked them to give me a minute," he explained without turning his head to look at her, "but you can stay."

Natasha bit her lip and waited, sensing that something else was coming and he was trying to decide how to word whatever was on his mind.

"I've never had to face something like this before and it's a little jarring." His voice was almost a whisper, the voice of a man who had woken from a nightmare to find that the things that tormented him were real.

"I have," she admitted quietly. She had never told anyone the story that she was about the share with him and she didn't understand the impulse to share it now. Her only thought was that hearing it might make him feel slightly less alone and vulnerable.

Clint's hands moved away from his face and his head turned toward her, "go on."

"One of the experiments that they conducted on the girls in the Widow programme was a virology programme designed to boost our immunity and our capacity for healing," she explained, "in my case the virus they injected us with had some unexpected effects. The fever was expected but I lost my sight and my hearing for five days, must have worried them pretty badly because they never repeated that particular experiment with the newer girls …"

"Jesus Nat," the words escaped him in a rush, empathy plain in his voice and facial expression.

"I was lucky," she told him, hoping that he would be as fortunate as she herself had been, he was certainly more deserving of it, "some of the others didn't survive the fever."

The silence between them was comfortable as he mulled over her words. Eventually, he turned his face back toward the ceiling. "I'm glad that you got out," he told her sincerely, "and I'm glad that you're here."

Coulson came back with the doctor when it was time to remove the bandages and Natasha found herself pacing the room, deliberately keeping her footfalls as light as she could so that Clint wouldn't pick up on the anxiety she felt. He was anxious enough without picking up on her emotions, she could read it plainly in the grip of his hands against the edge of the bed.

The doctor had begun his examination by asking the usual questions about how his patient was feeling and whether he had experienced any pain since he had last checked in on him. Clint answered each enquiry as much as he was able though it was obvious that the delay in removing the bandages was torturous for him.

"When I remove the wrappings I'm going to need you to tell me how your vision is and you must tell me immediately if there's any pain or discomfort Agent," the doctor explained. Clint nodded his agreement. "Depending on how things look we may need to do some more scans, maybe another MRI …"

"I think it's time Doc," Clint interrupted. Natasha wondered how he managed to appear so patient; it surprised her that he hadn't already removed the bandages himself.

Slowly, Doctor Streiten unwound the bandages that circled his head. Natasha found herself holding her breath, noticed that Clint and Coulson appeared to be doing the same. As the coverings fell away, Clint blinked rapidly and the silence in the room became deafening.

She knew before he spoke that the outcome wasn't what they were hoping for, it was in the absence of his words of joy and the quiet hitch of his breathing, more than that though it was in the way that his eyes, usually so hypnotic, didn't catch and hold her own.

"Agent Barton?" the doctor asked, voice calm and level despite the enormity of the situation.

Natasha's gaze flew to Coulson and found their handler rooted to the spot, his face a mask of deliberate calm and composure. He knew, she could see it when she looked at him. Coulson knew that everything was not well; he knew just as she did that the archer's vision was not as it should be and he was trying to come to terms with it just as she was.

His voice when he spoke was raw, "it didn't work Doc, everything's still blurry as hell."


	16. Chapter 16

**A.N: **_Okay I'm wrapping this one up with this chapter so that I can give myself a break over Christmas and see where the ideas take me. I always wanted this to be about Natasha's journey to SHIELD and the beginnings of her partnership with Clint - I hope you all liked what I did with it and Merry Christmas!_

* * *

As it transpired, Barton's vision was not lacking entirely. He was not blind by the dictionary definition and that gave them all room for cautious optimism.

Natasha stayed with him, paying particular attention to the body language of Dr Streiten and his colleagues, who appeared genuinely baffled as to the finer points of Clint's condition. His pupils dilated when a pen light was shone into his eyes, a sign that gave them hope his vision could return, and the new round of scans, x-rays and examinations that they performed continued to show no signs of cranial bleeding or brain injury.

"I can see you," he explained when they were once again left alone, the doctors having retreated to analyse his latest test results, "but everything's hazy it's a like looking at something through water or in the fog of a mirror. I know it's you but I can't make out the details."

Natasha nodded, wondering if he would be able to see the movement. "How is it in relation to they way it was when we got back from Peru?"

He seemed to think carefully before answering, "slightly better I think." His hand reached out cautiously, moving closer to her until his hand rested against her hair. "It probably helps that you're a redhead - easier to see."

At that, she chuckled. " I imagine that it does," she replied.

Over the hours that followed the others came and went but Natasha stayed at his side, travelling no further than the adjoining bathroom. She watched over her partner carefully, recognising the frustration that rose in him as he tried to make sense of the world around him once again. He was trying so hard to be brave, to will his vision back to normal, that she was worried he might strain his eyes even further. It was a relief when he drifted into a fitful slumber late in the afternoon because it meant that she no longer had to monitor her own emotions quite so closely. It was proving harder than she had imagined to stay unwaveringly positive for him, particularly when faced with the reality that a simple blow to the head, something that they encountered frequently, could have such devastating effects - though she wasn't sure when in her existence a fifty foot fall into a lake began to constitute a simple blow to the head and knew that they were lucky her partner hadn't snapped his neck upon impact.

It was early morning when she woke up in the chair at his side. Five hours had passed since she last looked at the clock and that suggested she'd caught more sleep than she had in days in the least likely of surroundings. She shifted uncomfortably, muscles protesting the position that she found herself in, a chorus of aches making themselves known as she moved. Massaging her aching neck, she glanced around the room and found that her partner was still sleeping, face turned away from her toward the window. Something fierce and primitive ached in her chest, clawing its way to the surface. Was this love, a familial bond that had grown in the months since he declined the chance to kill her, was it represented by the sudden urge to protect and ease him in whatever way she could?

Coulson and Hill appeared shortly afterwards and she took advantage of their presence, surrendering Clint into their care and retreating from the room for the first time since she had entered it with him. She didn't go far, just to the nearest outdoor area so that she could turn her face up toward the stars and ask them for an answer to the riddles of her own heart and her partner's health. She'd always had a fondness for the night sky but tonight the stars made poor companions, providing her with none of the clarity that she sought. She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill and tuned out all of the noises that escaped the building behind her. The weather here was nothing like she was used to, with even the coldest nights doing little to trouble her. The night air felt positively balmy in comparison to the cold she felt inside herself. Those who complained about winter in the United States had clearly never experienced the full fury of a Russian winter, the Siberian winds cold enough to steal the very breath from lungs and the cause of as many lost limbs as land mines were in other areas of the world.

Natasha had never had a partner, never had someone to watch her back, never had a friend and the bond was too close. His distress cut her deeply; she needed to regain control of her surging emotions before she went back to him. Barton was a perceptive man, more perceptive than any other she'd known, and he wouldn't need twenty-twenty vision to pick up on her turmoil, all he would need was to be in the same room as her and it would be obvious. She breathed deeply, taking the cool night air into her lungs where it settled and formed a solid foundation that she could draw upon to get them both through what was still to come.

Coulson was outside the door to his room with the doctors when she rounded the corner, their bowed heads and hushed voices telling her that this was a conversation they did not want to have in front of Clint. There was discussion of the chances of full recovery and ability to work in the field, which concerned her. Pace picking up, she burst back into the room to see what was going on, already half convinced that something calamitous must have happened in her absence.

His head shot up as she entered the room but he said nothing, the hammering of her heart providing the soundtrack to her rising fears that there was no coming back from what had happened at that Peruvian warehouse, so loud it seemed that surely he must be able to hear it.

She opened her mouth to speak, needing to break the silence and then her eyes met his. It wasn't anything that she could describe if someone asked but she found herself caught in his eyes, thunderous and grey, shot through with hints of green and gold like flashes of coloured lightning in a stormy sky. Clint looked directly at her, his gaze unflinching and she felt her heart begin to pound for a different reason entirely. Hope flared in her chest, bright and burning. A lazy grin spread across his face and she felt her own smile begin to form.

"You can see me can't you?" she asked, not really needing the clarification. She could tell by nothing more than the look in his eyes that his vision was much improved.

"Woke up and my vision was much clearer," he replied, extending a hand to indicate she should move closer, "still not perfect but right now I'll take any improvement."

Their fingers linked effortlessly when she placed her hand in his and she accepted the gentle squeeze that he gave as the affectionate gesture that it was. It seemed nothing short of a blessing that his vision should have returned even partially and it had certainly boosted his mood.

"Do they know?" she asked, not bothering to elaborate on who 'they' were.

He nodded. "Naturally they want to run more tests and keep me in bed for the next few days." Natasha nodded, understanding where they were coming from, rest and recuperation seemed the best way to avoid any setbacks in his recovery while anything that might end in a bump to the head would almost certainly not be allowed. "Truth is, as much as I see the logic, this is the most downtime I've had in weeks and I'm already more than restless."

"Anything I can do?"

"Well under normal circumstances I'd ask you if you wanted to go a few rounds to take the edge off but somehow I don't think you're going to agree to that tonight …"

Shaking her head, she gave the matter some thought. There had to be something active that they could do that wouldn't impede his healing or run the risk of him sustaining an injury. "Well we could always run through those tai-chi forms you showed me when we got back from Berlin," she suggested, "the movement might help with the restlessness you're feeling."

"And I don't need perfect vision for them either if the space is big enough," he exclaimed, brightening noticeably at the thought of getting out of bed and doing something familiar.

Over the twenty-four hours, Clint's vision continued to improve steadily and Natasha found herself caught in the storm of his eyes on more than one occasion while they performed tai-chi side by side, or during their many conversations about everything and nothing. His appetite improved significantly once he no longer had to suffer the indignity of someone helping him to eat and she knew that he was feeling better when he started to mock her in his familiar lighthearted manner, which in turn made her feel better.

Coulson found them the next morning, side by side in the space that they had cleared, moving in perfect synchrony through a series of forms with which he was familiar. Struck by the sight of them, he once again allowed himself a moment to marvel at the spectacle of the sandy-haired archer and the fire headed spy at his side, before turning to glance at Fury who stood on his left. Neither of them missed the way that Natasha looked on her partner or the way that Barton allowed her to lead him through the exercise without the need for his usual wisecracks. They had seen potential in this duo from the moment that they had first seen them together, opportunity to turn a lone wolf into an even greater asset than he had always been, but neither he nor the director had imagined just how effective this partnership would be, and how much they still had much to offer.

It was Clint that noticed them, his eyebrow quirking upwards in acknowledgement as he stepped forward and leaned into a stretch with graceful precision. Natasha mirrored the movement, moving with a dancer's grace, her own eyes finding the senior agents just inside the doorway as she came to a stop. Barton's arm came to rest across her shoulders, like siblings caught doing something that they knew they shouldn't, a casual, almost familial affection that spoke volumes about the apparent trust that existed between them.

"Morning Sir," he greeted them both.

Fury was the first to speak. "How are you feeling Agent?" he asked. "I understand from the doctors that your vision is back to normal?"

"That's correct," he replied, "and I'm feeling just fine Sir, if a little desperate to get out of the infirmary."

Fury chuckled. Beside him Coulson shook his head and glanced down at the ground as if searching for the strength to continue dealing with an agent as unpredictable as the one he had been saddled with three years earlier, which caused Barton to grin in that troublesome way of his.

"I don't imagine that they'll be keeping you here much longer," Coulson muttered dryly, "not after the pair of you rearranged the infirmary to make room for a workout session."

"Technically we didn't rearrange the infirmary," Natasha began, "but you know that we aren't built for sitting around and Streiten said that under no circumstances were we to go outside to do this so …"

Coulson cut her off with a look and a grumbled remark about taking remarks out of context and bending the rules. Both of his charges looked back at him with feigned innocence and pretended not to know exactly what he meant. Deep down he found the fact that they were so attuned to one another exhilarating - if a little unnerving. Together, they could run circles around almost any handler at SHIELD and that thought gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach since he was the one who had to deal with them both on a daily basis.

"Well I can see why you were worried you might have your hands full with this," Fury murmured, smiling a little too broadly for Coulson's liking.

Both Clint and Natasha straightened, attention caught by the director's words and Coulson got the distinct impression that the full force of their combined intellect was now trying to figure out what had been meant by the remark. He had no idea what possibilities they could come up with and 'interesting' was not a definition he cared to explore with them right now and certainly not in front of the head of SHIELD, there was no way of knowing where such a conversation might lead. "Thank you Sir," he replied, hint of self-depreciating humour evident.

"What's going on?" Clint asked, a hint of tension creeping into his voice.

"Your partner's probationary period is over," Fury announced levelly. "We've been evaluating your progress Natasha over the course of the last few weeks, assessing you against different criteria and watching how you responded to different stimuli …"

Both Natasha and Clint froze, neither of them sure what the outcome of her probation would be. Clint was sure that she had done all she needed to do to prove herself but worried that it would be strange if he had to go back to working without her. He had grown used to having this fiery shadow at his side, her ferocity and determination driving him on and inspiring him to dig deeper and push further than he could alone. Natasha desperately wanted to stay here but plagued herself with the thought that Clint's injury would count against her, that SHIELD too would reject her, finding her worthless and too dangerous to be trusted.

"... You've proven yourself to be an asset and you've integrated well with our operation," Fury continued, "and you've proven that Agent Barton here can work with someone else, which we had seriously started to doubt prior to your arrival."

"Hey!" Clint interrupted, mildly affronted. "It isn't my fault you always tried to pair me up with the stuffiest agents you had ..."

Coulson held up a hand to silence him and for once he complied.

"We could use an agent like you on our books Natasha but the council have some reservations about your past and what it means for your loyalty."

Natasha's heart pounded painfully, here it was, the rejection. "Sir…"

"But anyone who knows me knows that I don't give a rats ass about the council's opinions in some matters and this is one of them," Fury continued. "So allow me to be the first to congratulate you. Welcome to SHIELD Agent Romanoff."

Natasha shook the director's outstretched hand before she had fully comprehended what was going on. "I'm sorry Sir, I think that was my hopeful ear, could you repeat that please?"

Fury chuckled, "I welcomed you to our organisation Agent," he told her. "The down side is that as of today it officially becomes part of your remit to try and stop your partner from getting himself into trouble."

Clint's whoop of laughter filled the air as he took in the words and their meaning. "Hear that Partner?" he asked.

"I'm sure that we'll find any number of missions for you Natasha," Coulson reassured her calmly, casting her a brief conspiratorial look, "and not all of them will involve Barton."

"So does this mean I get a new handler?" she asked hesitantly, fixing her gaze on the face of the second man who had ever given her the chance to prove herself, a man she had already grown fond of.

Coulson offered her that quiet smile of his and shook his head. "Not at all, I'm going to handle you and Barton from this point on and I think that we're going to be exceptionally busy once he gets a clean bill of health from Streiten and I can get you both back in the field."

Barton grinned at the two senior agents, "oh this is gonna be fun!" Then, "Do we get matching uniforms?"

Natasha wrinkled her nose, "God I hope not! I'm not wearing anything with purple, however muted, it'll clash with my hair. I'll stick with black thank you very much..."

"This is definitely going to be interesting," Fury murmured, quietly excusing himself and stepping back toward the door. His eyes met Coulson's and a smile that was part apology and part amusement touched his lips. "Good luck Coulson, I suspect that you're going to need it."


End file.
